


Bookends

by il_mio_capitano



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-09
Updated: 2017-05-09
Packaged: 2018-10-29 04:25:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 32
Words: 68,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10846422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/il_mio_capitano/pseuds/il_mio_capitano
Summary: This is a series of vignettes that isn't always published in chronological order. It's AU Buffy and Giles about five years after Chosen. Ignoring all comics. It kinda ships but we are in rough waters. **new chapter added May 9th 2017**





	1. Keeping In Touch

**Keeping In Touch**

Rupert Giles limped across his living room carpet in just his boxer shorts. It was mid afternoon and the sun sparkled through the bay window of his rented college house, giving the pale lemon walls a welcoming peaceful glow. He didn’t worry about the neighbours’ view because his modesty was assured by the crisp net curtains and all the middle-class morality they protected.

Some eight properties clustered around a small ornamental quad and Giles’ house had the best aspect of them all - even if the back butted onto the main road. It was modestly sized: two bedrooms with a single upstairs bathroom and whilst the kitchen was regrettably small, its sacrifice gave him the double spaced living area that he loved. Most of the furniture came with the College lease but Giles had added his own touches: most notably a large floppy leather sofa to watch TV or to listen to his expensive hi-fi system from. The cooler, dining area had a beautiful mahogany table and chairs with such elegantly turned legs it was almost sacrilege to eat off it. It epitomised the old fashioned quality about the furnishings he enjoyed. The bookcases were snug and respectfully arranged in alcoves even if their contents had regrettably brash and brightly coloured spines advertising serious thought and modern academia. His answer phone blinked lazily on top of a walnut writing bureau that was probably an antique when the University acquired it. He kept it open with books and papers and half-marked essays. His apple laptop sat happily charging on a Queen Anne occasional table in the corner, completely unfazed by its regal connections.

A faint murmur of traffic could be heard from the main road but it was usually only the larger lorries or double-decker buses that came too close and rattled the drainpipes that could be said to be a nuisance. He heard his neighbours’ music at times but only at night. Hazy afternoons were all his own usually.

Giles stretched his aching body self-consciously in front of the mirror over the fireplace. His weight was still good even if he couldn’t run anymore. Mainly he was red and blotchy and a little bruised in places. There were some deep dark scratches on his chest and shoulders. He frowned at the grey hairs that were seriously outnumbering the chestnut ones. The old scars retained the same angry white resentment they’d always had.

He pushed aside his vanity, picked up his drink and climbed the narrow carpeted staircase, stopping first to pick up a stray shirt button and then his glasses a couple of steps later. His framed print of Plymouth Harbour from the 18th century had been whacked off centre but he ignored it in favour of collecting his belt from the banister rail. At the top of the stairs, he pulled shut the door to the spare room that had been knocked open. It was packed with crates of books he wouldn’t be reading and a weapons chest he wouldn’t be opening. He found and kicked his shirt into the main bedroom where chaos and uncertainty really took a hold. For a so called Master Bedroom there was barely room for a bed and wardrobe and some of his father’s books had sprawled their way across the landing and slumped against skirting boards and up onto the window sill with no discernible campaign or sense of order. He’d had them for two years now and still had no stomach to catalogue them. Their main purpose currently was to support the whirlwind of female clothing that was strewn about them and his floor.

The clothes’ owner was curled up in the middle of his bed. Her nakedness swathed under a huge duvet, a corner of which was scrunched up under her chin. The eye of his storm: Buffy Summers, Slayer, twenty-seven years old and looking disturbingly younger as she dreamt on her side. His beautiful weakness. Giles put his drink and glasses on the bedside cabinet and crawled back to her.

“Ugh you’re cold.” Buffy scampered across a little, giving him room. “Why do you always run off afterwards?”

“Probably my age. I put the water heater on though.” He lay on his back and looked at the cobwebs on the ceiling. The bedroom caught the light of the afternoon sun more harshly than the living area. Dust rose and danced in judgement on the thermals.

“Mm hot shower. Your act of desertion is totally forgiven.” She turned to face him, propped herself on one elbow and ran a lazy finger teasingly over his chest. “Although I could think of further penance if you like.” She seemed to like to touch him, though she always avoided the scars.

“You’re incorrigible,” he said softly.

“I know. Isn’t it good? This is good isn’t it?” When he didn’t respond immediately she climbed upon his stomach and held his wrists playfully. “Say it’s good Giles.”

He laughed. “How can I complain?”

She leant forward for a kiss but pulled back and wrinkled her nose.

“Really not keen on the whisky breath. Why do you always have to have a drink when I’m here?”

“It helps me to relax.”

“You had one before too,” she accused.

“Don’t count. It’s not nice.”

Buffy climbed off him and rolled back under the duvet. “Is it just me?” she asked. “Because I have no complaints. You don’t have to prove anything to me. I know you can keep up.”

Giles reached for his watch on the cabinet and studied the time. “How’s Paris?” he asked.

She smiled at some memories. “Busy. Exciting. Dawn loves it. I’m not always there of course. Everybody always wanting something. Wanting me. Slayer In Demand here.”

“I’m sure.” Giles buckled the watch on his wrist. “Are you seeing anyone?” An afternoon bus striped the window light, rattling the sash mechanism. The road hadn’t been built with anything other than horse and cart in mind.

“Only the old gang, but then they are all travelling and doing important work too.” She seemed to think she’s spoken out of turn. “You’re much better off out of it. Faith asked me if retirement suited you. I'll tell her yes.”

He looked at her in surprise. “Does she know?”

“This? Oh no. I’m just saying everyone is cool with you wanting to do the academic thing. It’s good that you’re got an ordinary life. Everyone understands really.”

Giles swung round out of the bed. “How nice.”

“Hey.” She moved quickly to stop him, hugging his back and shoulders. “You don’t have to compete OK? Spike and I did a lot of stuff in our day but this is much better.”

He pulled away and stood, levering himself via the bedpost. “Please let’s not talk about your vampire lovers in my bedroom.” The duvet had flapped over leaving Buffy on her knees facing him, she didn’t seem to feel awkward about it.

“I’m just saying Spike and I were all Last Tango in Paris, and this is all nice and safe. I feel I can be myself here with you. That that’s a good thing.”

He gave her a shy smile then turned away to drain his whisky. Buffy plumped his pillow on hers to raise her head and laid back down to get his attention. Giles however went to the wardrobe for a fresh pale blue shirt. He stood with his back to her and buttoned it up.

“And I like coming here,” Buffy continued as she stretched her toes apart. “It’s very picturesque and quaint and, do you know, I’ve never seen a single vampire here? I guess you don’t need to go out to patrol.” She stopped that line of thought hastily. “No. Course not. Sorry.”

Giles buttoned the cuffs and delved back in the wardrobe for one of his suits.

Buffy frowned at the implication. “What happened to the jeans? You were slacker guy two hours ago.”

He stepped into the legs a little awkwardly then retrieved his belt from the floor and threaded the loops. “I have a tutorial at 3.30.”

“You never said.”

“It’s Thursday.” He produced a jaunty yellow and blue tie and raised his shirt collar. “I always see students on a Thursday.”

“Oh.”

“You’re welcome to stay.” Taking the banister rail with his right hand he pushed off down the stairs and left her alone.

 

 

Buffy re-dressed quickly and found him clearing the draining rack in the kitchen. It was the smallest room in the house and as there was barely room for one person, she lingered in the doorframe.

“I think I’ll go and get an earlier train,” she said.

Giles continued stacking his pan stand without looking up. “Do you want me to call you a taxi?”

“No. I can walk.” She gestured to the small airline bag she’d abandoned earlier by the front door. “I travel pretty light these days.”

Something didn’t feel right so she reached for his hand and pulled him into the open space of his tidy and organised living room, backing him into the sofa. He moved a little awkwardly but she pulled him close in reassurance. He felt for her hair as she hugged his waist, slipping her hands under his suit to touch the soft cotton of his shirt. Giles dropped a kiss on the top of her head before they broke. She reached up and worked on his tie. “Got to have you looking your best for impressionable young minds,” she explained, pushing the knot a little tighter. He dug his hands in his pockets and rumpled his nicely pressed jacket.

Buffy smoothed her hair, retrieved her phone from her bag and started pushing buttons professionally. “I can be in England again in five weeks.” Giles flipped open his desk diary and fingered ahead.

“When exactly?” he asked.

“Friday 21st through to Sunday 23rd” Buffy beamed. “Lucky boy gets a whole Saturday. What shall we find to do with ourselves?”

Giles looked at his shoes. “We could go for a drive, or head up the river. Take something for a picnic if the weather is nice.”

“Do you punt Dr Giles?”

He looked her in the eye at last. “I’m told I have excellent technique Miss Summers.” Buffy giggled and began to tap in the entry. Giles produced a fountain pen to record his end of the arrangement.

“Actually Buffy, I’ve got a formal dinner on Friday 21st. We could go together. It’s a Black tie do, you know, formalwear?” She was engrossed in her own email. “Buffy? Clothes? Dressing up?” Giles added hopefully as she frowned at her screen.

“Sunday 23rd I’m going to have to be away pretty early I’m afraid. And Friday I can only get here after 10pm. That’s going to be late. I’ll be starving after the airplane food too.” She sighed and then looked up brightly. “You can cook me something special. I love your cooking.”

Giles nodded his acquiescence. “I have all the skills.”

She put away her phone happily and slipped her flight bag over one shoulder. “It’s why I come.”

She kissed him goodbye and let herself out as had become the habit. Buffy never wanted to be seen to the door and fussed over so he waited and watched through the back window as her jaunty frame set off up the high street towards the train station. The local school run had begun and cars and kids began to stream out onto the pavements, sounds of laughter and playfulness filled the spring day. He undid his top button and slacked the tie. Peace and quiet reigned inside his home once more: the madness had past. He decided against another whisky and sat at his writing bureau to consider the afternoon’s work that had been interrupted. The answer machine continued to flash slowly. He pressed [play].

“ _Hi Dr Giles, it’s Emma here. I’m afraid I can’t make our tutorial today at half three…_ ”

He stopped the message mid sentence. His student had gone on to say something about ‘ _a library mix up_ ’ and could he ‘ _be an incredible angel and reschedule for Tuesday?_ ’ He hit [delete] because he didn’t need to hear it again.

 


	2. Barricades

**Barricades**

Buffy had had every intention of sticking to the date they’d agreed but she wasn’t sure how Giles was going to react to her being a day early. She’d tried leaving messages on his answering machine to warn him but he’d not confirmed even the agreed date. There wasn’t much else she could do but get there and see how he was. Her life was a rollercoaster of planes and meeting rooms and it followed a route she couldn’t always break. She understood his academic life was based around routine and order and that he didn’t take well to surprises, but she really hoped she’d be a nice surprise, a welcomed surprise.  If not well, there were always hotels near the train station.

She tried his cell phone a couple times after clearing customs at Heathrow. It bugged her that it was switched off. Sure he wasn’t Grand Central station for communications anymore and he often forgot the silly thing needed to be recharged, but still, Buffy worried a little as she made her connecting train to his university town.

It was a warm day in England and she walked the mile to Giles’ small house with her denim jacket tied to her travel bag. She passed a group of high-spirited students who seemed to be excited about a rugby match or possibly a cricket thing - something alien that made total sense to them anyway. Eight youngsters crammed in an open top sports car honked at her from some traffic lights.  She scowled with enough calculated grace to make them laugh and drive on.

Giles’ front door was locked and the doorbell wasn’t producing him either. Buffy stepped back into the shared courtyard and looked up at the spare bedroom windows. They were shut but if they were anything like his master bedroom windows, a little force would lift one of them up. The drainpipe alongside looked sturdy enough. She put her bag down and pulled at the ancient iron pipe in inspection. One of the rusty clips immediately popped out in warning.

“I say.” A voice called from the house opposite. Buffy tried to hide her breaking and entering intent with a 200 watt smile.

“I say are you looking for Dr Giles?” A young man about her age came out dressed in cargo shorts and tee-shirt with a rather rude message concerning a rival university.” I’ve seen you here before I think? Calling on our evasive Dr G?”  He beamed a smile that probably got him quite some way with undergraduates. “I’m Michael.”

She nodded but had no intention of going into her own details. Instead she asked curtly, “Is he here do you know?”

“No, he went out some time ago. Was he expecting you? That’s terribly rude.  He can be a bit like that can’t he? My girlfriend thinks he’s ex MI6 or something, because she says he’s all wounded puppy one minute then snarling pit bull the next. But then she also thinks everyone here is damaged somehow by Class Warfare, so maybe we shouldn’t set too much store by that.” He considered her. “I don’t suppose you know his story do you? He is a bit of a mystery round here. Rather parachuted into the place, don’t you know?” She must have been frowning because he added quickly, “I mean he knows his stuff right enough, just a bit of mystery.”

“Do you know where he went?”

He sighed in resignation of having to give up the conversation. “His friend came round, so I say try the Water Rat. I’ve seen them in there a couple of times recently.”

The Water Rat public house seemed a deeply unlikely Giles venue. Its position near the river made it a magnet for students and on that hot afternoon, they seemed to be there in their hundreds.  A good many were standing and drinking outside, waving happily to passing cars and cyclists. There was no polite way past the crush in the main entrance so Buffy skirted to the back and saw much the same scene of happy drinkers clustered around picnic tables or lying on the grass in groups. Everyone seemed intent on jovially consuming a great deal of alcohol. She managed to squeeze in the main building via the backdoor. The pub was split into a series of bewildering rooms each of which was full to bursting with happy sweaty drinkers revelling in sunshine and some varsity sporting success.

Giles was seated in corner of the third room she tried. He saw her at about the same time she spotted him. He smiled warmly and drank a sizeable amount of his pint. Buffy couldn’t see his companion as she drove through the crush towards him.

Giles rose to greet her. “You’re a day early,” he exclaimed happily though that could just as easily have been due to the beer. She wondered how long he’d been there. He was usually more cautious in his greetings, even in his own home.  She was about to explain her lucky break in scheduling when a familiar voice also greeted her.

“Hello Buffy.” She froze.  Ethan Rayne had a chair next to Giles. “Long time no see,” he added brightly.

Her first instinct was to punch Ethan and drag Giles away to safety, but the room was too noisy and crowded. One of the students, in throes of explaining a winning move, jostled her in the back and she lurched forward clumsily. Giles caught her arm to steady her. “You remember Ethan don’t you, Buffy?” He was shouting a little to be heard over the noise.

“How could I forget,” she hissed.  “Although more importantly, how could you have forgotten?  What’s he doing here?” A roar went up from another section of the pub and her question to Giles was lost the raucous. He pointed to his ear and shook his head, still smiling.

“Can I get you a drink?” he shouted. “Here, you’d better take my seat before the animals around here steal it.” There was some good-natured jeering from the drinkers to their side. Buffy reluctantly sent him off for a Lime and Soda, but then settled close to Ethan’s left ear.

“When he comes back,” she said calmly, “You’re going to make up an excuse and leave. And you are never going to contact him again.”

“I think not Buffy dearest,” Ethan replied a low voice. “I’m not actually the one who is causing him harm.”

“He doesn’t need you and your twisted games right now. He’s out of it. He’s a civilian now.”

“Believe it or not I do understand that part. I am rather curious as to why though.”

“He hasn’t told you?” she tried hard to keep the triumph of her voice.

Ethan smiled. “Not yet.” He sipped his beer. “You could tell me.”

He was insufferable when he held any sort of advantage, and his presence in Giles’ history and disturbing new role as his best drinking buddy, gave Ethan a whole handful of trump cards.

“Ah cat got your tongue,” he gloated. “I think what Rupert needs right now are his friends around him. Someone who cares for him. People he can talk to.”

She was aware she was jutting out her chin as she asserted, “He can talk to me.”

He barked a laugh and Buffy felt uncomfortable as to whether Ethan knew the sort of relationship she had with Giles now. That would have required Giles to have told him.

“Sorry but you’re not really serious?” Ethan stopped his mocking giggle. “It’s pretty obvious he needs help,” he said simply.

“I’m helping him,” she answered defiantly.

“Yes,” he said with slow contemplation. “But maybe he favours my help more than yours.”

She ignored the barb. “I agree he needs help, but what he doesn’t need is to be getting drunk and starting all that nonsense again. He doesn’t need to be raising Cain and god knows what else with you.”

“Oh but Rupert likes getting drunk with me, and Cain is a terribly nice chap once you get to know him,” he purred.

“Leave him alone, Ethan.”

To her surprise he leant forward, the lazy charm and jokes had evaporated and she saw the hardness in his eyes.

“No, you leave him alone. You don’t belong here, Buffy. You swing by every couple of weeks to screw up his life. You bring back all the pain and the memories. You’re the one that’s smothering him so he can’t move on. So why don’t you be the one to make an excuse to leave when he comes back?”

His passion was unexpected and she almost wanted to consider him an ally, but she was not going to surrender Giles to this man. She found her own anger and used it.

“If you hurt him I will kill you,” she threatened.

Ethan sat back, tremendously unimpressed. “I could give you the same warning, dear child.”

There was disturbance in the crowd and a parting similar to the red sea brought Giles, carrying Buffy’s lime and soda and also rather adeptly, two full pints.

“Seemed a waste not to get them in as I was there,” he explained. Ethan picked up his current pint and drained it as Giles did the same. They clinked the empty glasses together in some mysterious ritual.

“To Victory,” Ethan toasted, raising his voice so the call was taken up all around them.

Buffy rose with calculated dignity and turned her back to Ethan. She motioned Giles to duck so he could hear her, put a hand on his shoulder and spoke in his ear. “Can I have the keys please?”

“Oh right yes,” he breezed and dived to his pocket. Giles handed over his full set without a second thought. “There’s some food in the fridge. Make yourself at home. I’ll be…, well I’ll be….”

“Sure.” She squeezed past Giles who plonked back down on the chair as she passed.

She scowled at Ethan again who faked a smile. “Let’s not do this again sometime”, she muttered. “Giles,” And here she fixed him with her best demon slaying look. “I will talk to you later,” she added firmly. A couple of students jeered and there was a mocking call of ‘got a ball and chain there mate’. Giles sheepishly nodded to her as he arranged the glasses on the table, empties furthest away, but he was making no effort to leave Ethan’s company. Buffy knew the round was lost.

As she turned to go, Ethan shouted a mocking “Don’t wait up for us, darling.” Which produced more partisan laughter from the bystanders.

Buffy departed with great dignity, but raised the prize of Giles’ house keys on her middle finger to Ethan as she did so.


	3. Spread My Wings

**Spread My Wings**

Rupert Giles took a glass of champagne from the waiter and settled back against the wall to observe his fellow guests. It was his fifth glass but nobody else was counting, the rest of his immediate party having scattered to make small talk or even dance in the palatial ball room. He pulled uneasily at his collar and the black bow tie and wondered what time he would be allowed to get away.

The vast white receptions rooms of the Chancellery chattered and laughed with the sway of academics - like himself - and politicians, most definitely not like himself. His whole faculty had been three-line whipped there, the Master having insisted they make the journey to London to ‘let their hair down a little’. He’d felt they were getting ‘too cloistered’ and when Giles had opened his mouth to make his apologies, the Master, having already caught his eye, added ‘need to shake some of you out of your creeping agoraphobia, I say’. To which Giles had politely laughed along with everyone else.

They had opened the French windows at the back of the ballroom, which was promising as Giles began to feel the heat of the enforced sociability keenly. He put his empty glass on a Queen Anne mantelpiece and pushed off from the wall in search of fresh air.

“Giles.”

He stopped and stared at the vision in the pale blue, strapless silk who had addressed him. He had not expected to meet Buffy at a reception such as this. He hadn’t known she was even in the country.

“Buffy.” He smiled at her warm shout, put his hands in his pockets and studied his slightly scuffed shoes. She seemed excited and happy to be there. This was her natural element of course: this being with people. She was the most beautiful woman in the room and she deserved a chance to dazzle and radiate.

She took his arm. “I didn’t expect to see you here,” she said and his head started to swim with the heat and the alcohol. “This is Ryan. Captain Ryan Appleby.” Of course she was not alone. Giles had already seen the immaculately polished shoes and coloured banding of a British Army dress uniform. “Ryan, this is Dr Rupert Giles.”

“How do you do, sir.” Appleby was polite and serious and not some ‘eager to please’ puppy. He eyed Giles warily which was a crumb of comfort. Nobody had eyed him warily for a long time.

“Captain,” Giles acknowledged with equal caution. Buffy’s date was dark haired, handsome, taller than he was, and a good twenty years younger, and Giles felt, if he tried hard enough, he could probably find a whole lot more about the boy he could dislike

“So how do you two know each other?” asked Appleby and Giles wanted to laugh. Buffy opted for the ‘old friends’ explanation and switched the focus to how she and Ryan worked together from time to time. It became clear that Appleby knew she was the Slayer and Buffy wasn’t especially keeping secrets from him. Well, maybe one. Maybe she hadn’t mentioned how she trotted to her ‘old friend’s’ bed when she could squeeze him in between her busy workload.  Were they actually old friends? Had they ever been friends in the first place? That was a sobering question and Giles felt a strong need for another drink.

Appleby fired a piercing question at him. “So you’re a vampire hunter too?&rdquo

“No,” said Buffy very quickly. “Giles is retired, aren’t you, Giles.”

The good captain spoke with incredulity, “Oh but surely once a demon -”

“Drop it, Ryan.” Buffy said sharply. Giles’ attention drifted as the young couple exchanged some whispers.  He admired the eight elegant chandeliers which, whilst converted to electric light, still shouted Edwardian decadence. The ceiling also had some fine sculpting work that looked well maintained. It was remarkably warm for such a tall room.

Buffy’s voice interrupted his architectural survey. “Dance with me?” He heard her say.

“What?”

He looked around in surprise. The heated whispers had ended and Buffy had dispatched her soldier off on some sort of mission leaving Giles and her alone.

“I said ‘will you dance with me?’” And before he’d really processed the idea, she had a hold of his hand and led him to the ballroom where the twenty-five piece orchestra was playing something slow. She directed him confidently through the other couples to the centre of the floor and turned with a radiant smile.

“Be with me,” she said softly.

He could not resist. He stood and swayed and held her gently, surrendering to the music and the sensual perfume of her hair. Their feet moved together instinctively. Buffy’s hands were on his back and he felt his sweaty shirt stick to his ribs. The music thundered in his ears, blotting out all thoughts but the pleasure and the pain that she represented. She snuggled into his chest, depositing a little makeup on his dress shirt in the process, but he didn’t mind. It was just the two of them in the world and he felt the bliss and contentment that that revelation always brought him. It would last as long as the music did and he found his hand had moved to her bare shoulder and was gently rubbing her collarbone. She bunched his jacket in a fist to get closer as the orchestra turned their last page and gathered their last note.

He led her off the dance floor, deliberately choosing the opposite direction from where her soldier friend stood waiting

“It’s nice to see you getting out,” Buffy breathed. She hadn’t let go of his hand. “I’d have asked you to be my escort tonight if I knew you did this sort of thing.”

Giles deftly took another glass of champagne from a waiter for his thirst. “You fit me in when you can,” he replied and drank.

“Are you staying in town tonight?” she asked and he could see where her thoughts were heading. It was where her thoughts always headed and Giles saw he had only one slim opportunity before the madness descended again.

“No, I came here with my department. We all travelled here by minibus. In fact I probably need to be going now. It’s a long drive home.”

That got a frown and he managed to extradite his hand with the pretence of needing to swap the champagne over. The success gave him a little courage. “So while it’s been lovely Buffy, I do think this is over now.”

“What?”

“We’ve had our time.”

“Wait.”

“No. I think you should find your young man and enjoy the rest of your evening. Enjoy the rest of everything, in fact.” His voice had got a little higher but he brushed it off as down to the heady atmosphere. She knew what he meant; ironically they had that level of understanding with each other even if they didn’t communicate in other areas too well.

“Giles, don’t...”

“I’m fine Buffy. I don’t need your pity visits. We have different lives now so let’s respect that.”

Buffy suddenly looked like a delicate orchid he’d just trodden on. She’d always been a confident young woman and the transformation was alarming. With abject timing, Captain Appleby approached them. Buffy turned her head from him to compose herself.

“I think it’s time for my dance now,” the young officer said. He was smiling but it covered a slight unease as to whether he was rescuing her or disturbing her from something important. Buffy pre-empted any discussion by taking off like a bullet towards the dance floor. Appleby gave Giles a hard stare but it wasn’t a look of triumph; he was as puzzled as Giles was as to what was going on. Giles shrugged to convey his sense of bewilderment at the phenomenon that was women in general and Buffy in particular. Appleby eventually followed his girl and Giles let out the breath he’d been holding. It was for the best.

He watched them dance for a full three minutes before he lost sight of her behind Appleby’s solid, reliable frame. Giles slipped awkwardly back to the main reception room and then followed a waiter through some self-effacing swing doors. The world changed dramatically to a series of grubby corridors till he came out in the kitchens. A young woman frowned at him but in general the staff were far too busy rushing to supply trays of food and drinks to challenge his presence. There was much noise and lively chatter. Giles walked around the edges feeling like a ghost until he pushed open a fire door and made his way outside. A man in white half-length smock and harlequin trousers was sitting on the trash cans enjoying a smoke

Giles dipped further into the silence of the quiet car park and found his vehicle. The minibus had a simple door mechanism and he slipped the catch easily and slid open the large door at the side. He knew logically he’d have to wait another couple of hours for his colleagues but it still felt like act of liberation worthy of legend and song. He sat on the vehicle’s floor with his feet on the ground and wondered at what he’d just done.


	4. All At Sea

**All At Sea**

Buffy padded back from the tiny kitchen and set down her (marshmallow-less) cocoa on a delicately spindled table next to Giles’ generous leather sofa. She wrapped herself in the fleecy blanket with her feet across the middle seat, albeit tucked to one side, retrieved her mug and flicked the TV remote to resume her French film. She had seen it before in Paris but the late night screening in England was giving her subtitles, and hence the opportunity to pick up on some of the nuances she’d missed. The romance was still pretty lame but the plot held up.

It was late but she wasn’t worried about being on her own. If anything she felt a little silly waiting up for Giles, he was a grown man after all, even if he had been quite boyishly embarrassed when he’d explained he’d double booked himself for her visit. She’d teased him about whether he needed the place to himself and he’d stammered that the situation wasn’t ‘like that’. She looked at his clock again and couldn’t help but smile at the idea that maybe it was ‘like that’, and maybe Giles was finally on the mend. She’d been worried. Well, they’d all been worried.

It had been two months since the gang had picked this academic town and Giles had moved in without argument. The ancient wards afforded Buffy a welcome break from the slaying too. It was pleasant to have everything so normal in the outside world. Giles wasn’t really talking much but it was good to know that when she was away, he was safe from that kind of harm. He needed stability in his life right now. He’d earned the right to some sort of normalcy, even if she wasn’t sure how long he needed it for. The doctors hadn’t really wanted to commit themselves.

The only slight concern she had as she sipped her drink and drifted her attention away from the TV was that the weather outside had turned really atrocious in the past hour. The wind was howling at the upstairs sash windows despite the paper wedges Giles used to plug them, and the rain was nosily trying to breach the front door. She hoped he wasn’t getting too wet.

The key turned in the lock and she grinned at the teasing she could unleash. Alarmingly, any hope that Giles had managed to stay dry was misplaced. He looked like he’d have swum along the river that meandered nearby. Buffy turned on the sofa to face him, her eyes wide. “Couldn’t you get a taxi back?” she asked.

Giles stood on the mat after locking his front door and thought about her question for just a little bit longer than should have been necessary.

“Walked,” he declared finally.

He was standing very still, looking at the carpet and dripping disturbingly large pools of water. His hair was flattened and thin. His glasses bore so many drops of water he couldn’t possibly see through them.

“Giles?” Buffy gripped her mug. “Do you mean you walked her home?”

“No.” His answer was clear but his thoughts were miles away. Buffy rose and circled towards him carefully. He looked shipwrecked.

“You should get out of those wet things,” she said softly to which he nodded. “Do you want me to help?” He shook his head. “Did you two have a good dinner?”

He looked lost to her again. “I remember soup.”

***

The shower had been running for nearly twenty minutes and Buffy couldn’t stand to listen to the water heater in the kitchen anymore. She took the stairs quickly and knocked on the bathroom door. Steam was pouring out under the doorway and racing to the windows and his books. She hated imposing herself but when he didn’t answer to his name she opened the door and found Giles, still dressed and sitting on the floor, as the shower vented waves of steam to obscure her view

She killed the water, opened a window, grabbed a towel to put on the floor beside him and sat very cautiously. He was very wet. He looked like he was melting into the floor. She risked a shoulder to his and when he didn’t object she leant back. It was if there had been a great sea storm and Giles was a small defenceless boat that had been pulled from his moorings.

“I had to leave. You understand?” Giles muttered. Buffy made no reply but trusted a little more weight against him.

“Mary, well, she was in tremendous danger.”

Buffy’s eyes widened as her mind raced. Damn. They had been so careful. Willow said she had researched the town thoroughly; Faith had even taken a sweep and declared it clean. How could something dangerous have gotten through? Buffy needed to kill it and then they needed to find another demon-free zone for him. He couldn’t afford setbacks. Her thoughts were interrupted by Giles dreamily declaring, “I had to leave her before I got her killed.”

“Oh.” Buffy let her own anxiety drift and gently probed, “So you left her in the restaurant and then …walked. How long ago was this?”

“There was soup,” he recalled.

“I see. So you bailed during the soup course? Nuts. Will she be upset?”

He nodded.

“Angry?”

He nodded again. “I imagine so.”

“Oh Giles, I’m sorry. I can call her in the morning and try to explain, or you can.”

He pushed a foot against the pedestal of the sink and stretched. Water ran off his pants to the tiled floor. “Of course,” he mused. “I must have stuck her with the bill too.”

***

It had been hard work coaxing him out of the wet clothes, but after his shower he’d picked out pyjamas for himself and swallowed the two tablets without the water she offered. Buffy cleaned the debris from the bathroom and hung out his clothes to take to a laundrette the next morning. She heard him moving around on the stairs and the door to the spare bedroom open. The crates in there had lain untouched since they’d arrived. She thought of the first time she’d stayed over and they’d quibbled over who should take the couch. She had suggested clearing some space in the spare room how she’d lost his eyes to the seas. She knew better now than to ask him when he was going to go through his father’s belongings. She heard the door click again and then the creak of his bed springs in the master bedroom.

Buffy finished her salvage operation and checked around the windows and front door to see they were secure. She switched the lights off and took the narrow staircase back upstairs. Giles had cocooned himself in the centre of the bed with the duvet tightly drawn around him. She slipped into her sweat pants and stole one of his tee-shirts to wear, and then she lay to one side to his back, not touching him and not pulling for the duvet.

“I called Dr Clarke,” she said matter-of-factly. “He can see you tomorrow.”

“I’m fine. A bit of rain won’t hurt anyone.”

“And Mary seems to have left a bunch of messages on your answering machine.” He grunted a response. “She sounds concerned rather than angry,” Buffy persisted. “She sounds nice.”

“She is nice.”

***

Buffy slept fitfully, her senses tuned in to any movement from Giles. He was warm and dry now but not safe. She suspected he was trying to stay awake and the fact that he hadn’t moved a muscle, hadn’t acknowledged, or even moved away from her, rather confirmed her theory.

The street outside was deathly quiet. The wind had finally dropped and the squalls of rain were subsiding. The buses and trucks wouldn’t start to rattle his windows for another hour; it amused her that she was so tuned to the transport network outside his house. It was still dark and she yawned.

“She was in terrible danger.” Giles offered unexpectedly. “Mary was in danger,” he added by way of explanation. Buffy said nothing but reached to stroke the hairs on the back of his neck lightly. He was still adrift but looking to find a way back to the shore. ”She was going to die.”

“It was just a date, Giles. It was just too soon.”

“They all die on me.”

“Hush”

“Couldn’t do that to her. She doesn’t know how I can get them killed.” He started to get agitated and Buffy touched her hand on his arm.

“It’s not really your fault though,” she soothed.

He bunched his arms away from her. “They always die on me just the same. Everyone I care about. It’s only a matter of time.”

“It’s alright Giles. It was just a bit too soon to be dating again. I shouldn’t have encouraged you.”

“They all die on me,” he stated again. As if she didn’t know. As if she hadn’t been there.

“Try to get some more sleep. We’ll see the doctor in the morning. You’re doing really well.”

“You died on me too.” His tone was so accusatory she didn’t know how to answer at first. She made to hug him but he twisted round in the bed to face her and caught her arm. His eyes were bright with fear. He wanted to come back to the harbour but he didn’t trust the beacons.

“You died on me too. Are you a ghost Buffy? Are you really here?”

“Of course I am,” she whispered.

“I can’t believe that. Are you real? Or maybe I’m the ghost that haunts you?”

“I’m here, Giles. Feel me.”

“Don’t leave me, Buffy.”

“I won’t.”

And everything felt so right as they fell into their sorrow. A touch, a caress, urgency and reassurance in balance. She had no thoughts but to save this man that had suffered so much. As the world began to rise and assess its own storm damage so Buffy and Giles made love without shame or remorse. It was an instinctual comfort they had stumbled upon. A need to be lost in sensations other than regret or and guilt, and it was passion and it was sublime. Reckless and breathless; no boundaries or awkwardness, only movement and equality and in the face of the half light of daybreak there came understanding and tranquillity and Giles came back from the rocks at last and into calmer waters.


	5. Relative Pin

**Relative Pin**

The house Rupert Giles grew up in was old and rather sprawling in design. It was a two mile walk from the nearest town and nestled between clean pasture land to the south and west and mediaeval woods to the north. It was isolated but Giles had always felt safe in its isolation. Cities were so full of noise that it was hard to differentiate the malign, he’d always felt that the countryside was more honest in that regard. His parents and housekeeper certainly had no intention of moving anywhere else after nearly sixty years of marriage and in the latter’s case fifty years of employment, although the practicalities of maintaining the wood fires and the eccentricity of the electricity generator would someday outflank their stubbornness Giles supposed.

The party guests had arrived. The sudden downpour that had saturated the nearby arable land and threatened to turn Giles’ parents’ driveway into a river was common enough to his family and friends familiar with the area. And it wasn’t as if it didn’t always rain on his birthday; he’d grown accustomed to that, and was far from eight years old and jealous of friends with summer celebrations of their passing years. In point of fact, he rather welcomed the rain each year as part of his own private tradition and missed it keenly during his years in California. And now he was in his father’s study, surrounded by leather bound books whose spines had overawed him as a child, about to celebrate another year as if he’d never moved out.

The party, from what he could hear of the music player in the main reception room, had already begun. Giles sat awkwardly in his chair straining to hear sounds of his guests. The music was mixture CD made by Olivia and he rather wished she hadn’t chosen tracks quite so loud. His mother was indulging her of course. His mother indulged any girl he took home even if he was now on his fifty-fourth birthday and the girls could hardly be said to be girls anymore. His relationship with Olivia had improved greatly since his return to England. Away from the Hellmouth, she’d felt safer with him and been more tolerant of his Watcher’s duties. Life should have been perfect.

“Focus on the game, Rupert.” His father’s voice reminded him. “You do have quite a lot riding on the outcome.”

Giles eyed the old man before him and the chess board on the table between them.

“Knight to e2,” Giles said glumly. His head hurt where he had been struck but at least the blood had stopped running into his eye. It must have gone eight o’clock already, why couldn’t he hear more noise from the party? Some of his guests had arrived - he’d seen them before. Why hadn’t someone come to the study and asked after him by now? Not his mother, he thought with tightness in his throat, he didn’t want his mother to find them. He needed Buffy, he needed Buffy to come and see what was wrong.

The other man swooped forward and moved the white knight for him.

“You always did have romantic notions of leading with your knight,” he said.

“You used to rely on pawns too heavily,” Giles responded and stopped himself abruptly. He was not going to rehash old arguments and rivalries with this abomination.

Before the rain, the old man had taken the dogs out for a walk as dusk settled. The dogs had plenty of land for exercise really, but his father liked the routine and his doctor said it would be good for his heart. He had been a long time but Giles had been distracted as his guests had started to arrive and presents began to accumulate in the hallway. Friends joked about the rain as they shook overcoats and umbrellas and huddled off to find food and drink.

“Pawns can be promoted,” his father reminded him with irony. He looked like the man that had taken the dogs out, only he had come back without them, and with strength and vigour where there had been fragility and diminished faculties. And Giles had opened the back door and had only seen the elderly man that was prone to lapses of confusion. And Giles had taken pity that he had got so drenched in the rain and lost the dogs to boot somewhere. And Giles had said:

_‘For goodness sake, Dad. Come inside and get out of those wet things.’_

Careless words in the home of Watchers who should know better and Giles had compounded his mistake by turning his back on him as he entered the house.

The chair he was tied to was old and the left arm had a split near the joint. His wrists had been cuffed separately to each arm and Giles wondered if he could muster enough power to break the weakness on the left side. His legs would still be pinned but he’d perhaps gain an advantage. It was suicide but it might give him a weapon if he didn’t find any other alternative. The wood stack by the fire might as well as been in another room for all the distance it was to him. He couldn’t expect to make that without detection and the logs were probably too large. Funny to think that he and his father had cut them only two days previously. Technically he had chopped everything with the chainsaw and his father had sat and talked rambling tales with no discernible beginnings or endings of slayers of days of yore. Giles remembered the love in his mother’s eyes when she brought ‘the workers’ two steaming mugs of coffee. She worried about his dad and his continuing frailty. If Giles felt taken advantage of in finding himself tasked with all the hard labour, the gratitude in his mother’s eyes more than made up for it.

The vampire with his father’s face moved the black bishop intimidatingly across the board.

“You’ve got a lot riding on this, son,” it said.

“You are not my father. You are the thing that killed my father.”

The vampire moved swiftly, its bony hand gripped Giles throat with superhuman strength. Giles felt the pressure on his windpipe as the fingers dug in, his air supply cut. He pulled at the handcuffs desperately, pulled at the weakened chair arm but it held fast. His wrists cut and smarted with blood. The old man suddenly relaxed his grip, and smiled with fiery yellow eyes.

“And I’m the thing that’s going to kill you, boy”

Giles gasped for air, fighting an impulse to retch. The vampire perched on the table top and looked amused. “Well? What exactly did you think was going to happen next?”

“The game” Giles struggled hoarsely. “Why the game?”

“I thought you were bright. I thought you’d have guessed by now. Win, Rupert and I will only kill you. Lose, and I will turn you as well.”

The music had ended somewhere in the distance and all Giles could hear was his heart beating. It was coldly quiet in the house.

“Buffy will kill you,” he promised.

“Your Buffy isn’t here. She couldn’t even be bothered to show for your birthday party, Rupert. Slayers, they are all heartless little sluts really. Once they get their sex drive going it’s very hard to keep them focused on the job in hand. That’s why the Council has always worked to keep them young.”

“Liar.”

The older man looked amused. “They get too old and they become driven by their monstrous appetites. They go through men like a knife through butter. Has she run through you yet? Taken her pleasures?”

Giles battled disgust. It was not his father talking he repeated to himself. “I don’t think of Buffy in that way and she isn’t like that,” he affirmed.

“At your age, she’d probably kill you. Besides your Buffy has a craving for vampires. I must say, that’s an intriguing idea. Maybe she’d like you better that way.”

Giles had been taunted by vampires before but this one was too close to home.

“Buffy. Buffy!” Giles shouted as best he could with his rasping throat to the silence. No-one came running. The hairs on Giles’ arms rose and the silence engulfed him.

“The party?” he breathed in question.

“The Party’s over. I mingled as a gracious host should while you were unconscious.”

The implications of his comment were horrific.

“Buffy!” Giles shouted again. And then as revulsion gripped him he shouted more weakly, “Mum?”

The vampire smiled. “Your mother has gone on ahead of you. She didn’t know anything about it. I felt I owed her that. Generally I was quick. Like an old fox in the hen house.” He smiled. “I permitted myself a taste of the lovely Olivia though. You’ll have to forgive an old man’s fancy there.”

Giles wanted his body to shut down. He wanted the nausea to take him and be at peace. There was no reason for this vampire to lie.

The phone rang and startled him back to alertness. The man Giles knew as once his dad, pushed a gag into his mouth, and jumped gleefully across the room to answer it.

“Buffy, my dear, we were just wondering where you’d got to.”

Giles tried to shout and work the gag. His father smiled indulgently at his efforts.

Giles blinked back tears and risked a look at the left chair arm. The split in the wood was deeper now. Giles shifted to pull down surreptitiously. The metal handcuff felt like it was cutting his wrist through to the bone but he pulled on through gritted teeth. The wood creaked and he groaned to mask the noise. The vampire was too busy to notice.

“Rupert? I’m afraid I don’t see him… I think he went upstairs with Olivia somewhere.” There was a pause and then the thing giggled. “You have a one track one mind, my dear really.” He gave Giles a lascivious wink. “Oh that is good news… but another forty minutes you think? I’m sure Rupert understands something more important came up. ….We’ll be sure to look out for you. Yes, drive safely. Bye my dear.”

He hung up. “Gives us plenty of time to finish our game,” he said brightly.

Forty minutes. Giles looked at the chessboard somewhat desperately. He’d been confused and defensive when the game had been thrust at him. He hadn’t understood the stakes properly. He’d expected to die when the game ended, but he thought he was buying time for everyone else. He’d blocked and sacrificed openings to attack in order to keep the game going. He’d thought he was playing for time, playing for Buffy to come and find him. Playing to keep everyone else alive. But the game board as he looked at it, could not last another forty minutes. He was pinned to a hopeless position.

His priority was not to be turned. Forty minutes… well Buffy would kill the vampire, of that he had no doubt. Her doing so would be preferable, he thought. He didn’t want to fight his father. He didn’t want to think about having to put a stake through the frail heart of that old man. He just didn’t want to have to make Buffy kill himself as well. He must not be turned. He had one move, the weakness of the chair, the surprise in the counter attack. He might provoke the vampire to kill him and miss his chance to turn him. Or should he try to play on and hope Buffy came sooner? Bitter choices: wait for Buffy or try to stake his father and hope at least one of them died. At that point, Giles wasn’t sure he cared which.

“Seems to me, you are running out of options.” The vampire eyed the chess board with satisfaction. “Make the wrong move now and it will be checkmate in just three moves. You’ve given up too many pieces and your Queen is useless to you.” The vampire turned his back to walk towards to his seat. “I’d say your next move is critical, Rupert.” 

 

 


	6. Telling

**Telling**

Having searched the perimeter of the ball room, Buffy’s walk slowed to acknowledge both the futileness of the action and the pain that her elegant dancing shoes were causing her.  Seeing Giles at the London reception had thrown her. He’d looked good in a tux and she had allowed herself the luxury of thinking it was a sign of his improving behaviour and had dragged him on the dance floor in front of people. She shouldn’t have ignored the drink on his breath and the sweat in his shirt, Giles was not fixed enough to acknowledge they had any sort of relationship and it had been too much for him. He’d said some nasty things and bailed - god knows where - and she wasn’t going to be able to find him now. He’d been gone twenty minutes which was plenty of time to have driven far away. A trip to the country was on the cards in the morning. He’d have to open the door if she threatened to kick it in. His secluded little academic world would frown and tut and damn well notice her then, she thought bitterly. It was a thought that brought a smile to her lips at least. She wished she and Giles could just talk sometimes.

She slipped through an unlocked door and walked down an empty, partially lit corridor. She was still in the grander apartments of the building, but areas that weren’t used formally. The carpets had a faded charm but it was clear their upkeep was for general housekeeping and not to sweep high ranking visitors about the building. Buffy walked on and tried more doors, eventually she passed into an open area with a grand white staircase that was blocked at the top by lumber and a baby piano. She sat on the third tier and took her shoes off. They were the most impractical items of footwear she’d owned in a long time. They pinched, they squeezed, and they were clearly wrong for her but they looked wicked cool with her dress.

She was still rubbing her feet when Captain Ryan Appleby found her. He had better stalking skills than she’d supposed -all that Sandhurst Officer, Gentleman ,and Demon Hunting training no doubt.

“I was going to ask if everything is alright, but that seems a rather fatuous question in the circumstances.” He presented her with a salad bowl filled precariously with about 10 pints of ice cream. It was like Everest only with chocolate sauce and raisins. Buffy couldn’t help but blink at him.

“My sister swears by this stuff when she’s upset,” he offered by way of explanation.

“I’m not upset, I’m angry.” Buffy huffed.

Appleby pulled a face. “I’ve seen you angry,” he said patiently. “The Fire Demons in Ashby-de-la-Zouch saw you angry, even if it was the last things they saw,” he added rather wryly. “And this ain’t even close.”

“Well I’m working myself up to angry. Give me a couple of minutes,” she grumbled and then eyed the scale of the comfort offering. “No-one could ever be _that_ upset.”

“Ah, you being the Slayer, I may have over-proportioned a bit.” He smiled warmly and proffered her a spoon. Buffy nodded and took the bowl and spoon. She stretched out and propped herself up on an elbow.  Ryan sat on the stairs next to her as she played with her food.

“You’re a good brother.”

“Absolutely. Usually at this point I offer to do the testosterone thing and give the chap a damn good thrashing.”

“Has she ever taken you up on it?”

“Fortunately not. Would it help now?”

“Not really. Giles is a bit emotionally unstable.  He’s been through …well I told you what happened. He just blindsided me that’s all. He’s trying to run away from me again.” Dumping her after a dance had been Angel’s thing. She hadn’t expected Giles to be so callous.

Ryan nodded. “Yes, losing his family must have been…well I can’t really imagine. Bloody awful however you slice it. It sounds like he’s got classic PTSD to me. You should keep him out of combat scenarios and get good counselling. I have some telephone numbers if you like.”

“Duh, you think?” she snapped, conscious that she was incubating her anger and maybe test firing it at the wrong person. “Sorry. He shouldn’t have been a combatant anyway. Not like that.” She took a deep breath. “Afterwards, when he declared he wanted nothing more to do with the Slaying Game, he was pretty angry about everything and wanted to break contact with all of us. We swung him a safe academic job without telling him and lined up some support. I’ve been dropping by on him a lot too,” she added casually, not really wanting to go into details. Giles was big on ‘protecting their relationship’, convinced that anyone finding out would doom Buffy to certain death. He’d stood her up on three separate occasions until she got the message that whilst he talked of wanting to get out the house, it was pointless agreeing to any plans to do so. These were some of the things she couldn’t tell Ryan.

“You thought it wise to check up on him?”

Buffy nodded and tackled the North Face of her desert as a distraction. The sauce had started to run and threatened to spill over the side of the bowl. It had certainly started with her checking up him. Maybe she still was, despite the intimacy they had fallen into. The situation was confusing to her and the toppling ice-cream was a welcome engineering challenge.

“That’s sensible. I’m guessing he’s pretty familiar with bad magicks and some shady characters.  And now he’s given you the brush off there’s a definite risk he could do something apocalyptically stupid.”  Ryan’s military mind had shifted through its gears. “Some of my telephone numbers come with residential facilities,” he added thoughtfully.

“That sounds tremendously sinister even when you use your boyish charm.”

“You said yourself he’s unstable and therefore he could be a risk.”

“He’s not that sort of risk. He’s Giles.”

“Then why have you been checking up on him?”

“Because he shouldn’t be on his own with this.”

“Even if it what he wants?”

“Especially if it’s what he wants. I have some experience in these matters. He’s broken and I’m not letting him fall apart any further,” she declared.

“Buffy, I don’t want to see anyone get hurt, especially not you. I’m just suggesting that sticking to this chap like glue might not be the best thing for either of you. Have you considered that maybe you are too close? You do represent the Slaying Game after all. He looked a pretty mean drunk to me. Maybe he needs more professional counselling than you can offer? A safer environment with better drugs and, I don’t know, hypnosis or talking therapies or…”

“Oh he can’t talk about it.” She almost laughed at the bitterness, causing Ryan to look puzzled at her. She was going to have to explain that part. “Because he doesn’t remember any of it.”

“Good god.”

Buffy shifted so as not to look at him. “In the hospital…he looked so happy to see me….out of surgery and his eyes were so bright and alive. And I thought, ‘wow, this is Giles, my rock. He’s so strong and resilient even after everything he’s been through, and he’s smiling at me, at me’.  And then he asked if I could call his girlfriend to get her to drive his parents over,” her voice threatened to choke her, “because they’d be worried about him.”

She stabbed bitterly at the ice cream.

“And I had to tell him. I had to tell him everything. What we’d found…who we’d found… and believe me that was worse than the three weeks worth of funerals we went to. Well, maybe when we buried an empty coffin next to his mother’s… that was pretty bad, but having to tell him? I’m not sure he believed me. I’m not quite sure he’s forgiven me.” That was the moment she lost Giles. “We haven’t communicated very well since then.” She pondered that maybe their only real moments of pure communication came through physical intimacy. That it was the only way she could reach him and when he opened up his vulnerability to her, because then they didn’t need to talk, then they understood each other perfectly. But afterwards neither of them could quite ask for more or let go and the cycle of small talk and silence spun again.

“I understand some of what he’s going through,” she continued softly. “Some years ago, I had a similar sort of problem. I couldn’t relate to people, I detached, I didn’t care about my work, and I entered into an inappropriate relationship that kept a secret from my friends. Not that that last one is relevant,” she flushed. “But I have experience in this. I have a responsibility to Giles. He’s my problem and I say he’s not a risk.”

Ryan raised a hand in deference. “Your judgement. Your call. I saw what you did to those Fire Demons in Leicestershire, I trust you completely. And it’s only natural that if this chap stuck by you in your lean times, you want to be there for him.”

“Yeah.” Buffy found she had suddenly lost her appetite for ice-cream. She began to squeeze her feet back in her shoes.

“Are we past the comfort food stage now? Do you want to dance some more?”

“No, I think I’d like some fresh air.”

“Sure, I understand.” He rose and gallantly helped her to her feet. “Would you like to take a turn in the gardens and see if we can find something for you to stake?”

“Wow. Ice-cream and ass-kicking. You really are the perfect brother.”

Ryan smiled. “I can’t really promise we’ll find you anything. Some of my men are already patrolling the area for lurking undesirables. It’s probably really quiet out there.”

“Something will turn up. Let’s try the parking lot. I bet there are lots of undesirables hiding out there. There will be lurkage, I just know it,” she added happily. She could deal with Giles tomorrow.


	7. Partial Derailment

**Partial Derailment**

The sleepy rural train station hadn’t seen such activity in a long time. The trains from London usually whistled through contemptuously on their way to the more honeypot towns that surrounded the great academic city, but now the unmanned station like every dog, was having its day.

Bemused passengers dribbled out in twos and threes, carrying and wheeling their luggage awkwardly and looking bewildered to find themselves so obviously not where they expected to be. Tourists and day trippers mingled with backpacking students in their confusion at having been thrown off their train so presumptuously. There was much indignant and repetitive chatter. A coach across the road from Giles’ prime position in the car park, tooted its horn impatiently and gradually the travellers got the message and snaked their way over. Every small group stopped to ask the driver if she was their replacement to the rail service – to which she nodded curtly and gestured to them to load their luggage in the side trucks, not the main carriage of her spotlessly clean vehicle.

Giles climbed out the sports car and stood so Buffy could spot him. It was a warm sunny day and he’d left the top down. The sunlight caught her golden hair as she followed the others and he smiled shyly. She in turn treated him to a beaming grin and detached herself from the others.

“I wasn’t sure you were coming to pick me up.”

They never hugged in public. Giles moved to open the boot for her small carry-on bag. “The news has been full of the landslip under the rail tracks and the partial derailment this morning. That coach is taking everyone to the next station down the line, but I did get your message, so here I am.”

“And here you are indeed, and OH MY GOD, _this_ is the most sexiest car I’ve ever seen you with.” Buffy eyed the powder blue 1967 Lotus Elan with undisguised pleasure.

Giles shut the boot. “It’s Ethan’s. I just borrowed it to pick you up.”

“Ethan’s?” Buffy’s enthusiasm noticeably soured. “Have you checked the brake cables?”

“Come on. If we don’t get out of here before that bus, we’ll be driving behind it for the next twenty miles.”

They vacated the one good parking spot to a noticeable scowl from the coach driver and Giles began to lazily tickle the car around the narrow country lanes. Buffy struggled with her hair and the wind over the top of the windscreen. Giles gestured to the glove box where she found an old baseball cap. It was a tight fit and made her ears stick out. Giles thought it made her look disturbingly young and kept his eyes on the road.

“We don’t have to go straight to your place, do we? I mean, couldn’t we stop at a pub and have lunch or something? It’s just such a beautiful day to be outside.”

“I have to get back. I’m expecting a phone call.”

“Oh, OK.”

A brace of lapwings took flight from a hedgerow as they drove past a little too close on the near side.

“Giles, I got a really odd email from our finance department the other day. They asked about Dr Clarke’s bills. Apparently he’s stopped sending them.” Giles slowed the car to negotiate a blind corner. “Do you know why he might have done that?” Buffy persisted.

“Some sort of admin hiccup?” he offered. They reached a T-junction and Giles put all concentration into his observations, leaning forward to look past Buffy’s obstruction.

“For real?”

He pulled out onto a wider straighter road and worked up through the gearbox.

“I don’t know. I don’t work there.”

“Maybe you could ask them at your next appointment?”

Giles grunted and picked up more speed. The wind draft made it hard to hear for the rest of the journey.

***

He waved to the attendant and parked expertly in the small secure parking area two streets from the courtyard house he rented.  Buffy fought her way out of the seatbelt and darted to retrieve her bag. When Giles slammed the boot a little too fiercely Buffy giggled.

“Wow, I expected the back seats to explode with glitter and the doors to fall off.”

Giles worked the canvas hood over and secured it and muttered, “It’s a perfectly safe car. It used to belong to Ethan’s father.” He locked both doors manually and they walked to his house in silence, Buffy carrying her bag over her shoulder and Giles with his fingers tucked into his jeans pockets. They maintained their customary distance as they walked, giving no clue as to the nature of their relationship.

It was only when they were inside, and Giles had carefully locked the front door, did their arms snake around each other greedily in the hallway.

“Hello, Giles,” Buffy said playfully.

“Good morning, Buffy,” he replied and then spread his fingers across the base of her back and nuzzled her neck. Buffy caressed his shirt collar and played a thumb and finger over the top button. “Are you tired after your long journey?” he asked.

“Yes and no,” she teased. She pulled him closer as he gently worked the base of her tee-shirt to feel more of her back with his hand. “Tell me,” she giggled involuntarily and then regained her focus. “Exactly when is your next appointment with Dr Clarke?”

Giles kissed her ear and hid in her hair. “Oh I don’t know; end of the month or something. Do we have to talk about this now?” he asked soothingly.

“Yes, we do.” She tugged his shirt and pulled his head back to look at her. “It’s important we figure out what’s happened to his invoices.”

Giles took a very deep breath, broke off the embrace and walked into his living area. He’d piled up various worn clothes on his desk chair and scooped up the newspapers and magazines haphazardly on the coffee table. His desk could barely be seen under the choppy seas of essays and exams papers waiting for his attention. With his back to Buffy, he poured a small whisky into a glass. His hand shook slightly but she couldn’t see.

“With respect it’s really not important. In fact it’s pretty bloody pointless, if you must know. Nothing ever happens. I still don’t remember anything and frankly I don’t want to. It’s a complete waste of time and the Council’s money and Ethan thinks so too. He thinks…” he broke off hesitantly having said too much. “You wouldn’t understand.”

Buffy walked around to face him and asked carefully, “Ethan thinks what exactly?”

Giles focused on her shoes as he spoke. “Only that maybe with magick we could find a way to-“

Buffy interrupted him. “Oh because that worked out so well for Willow and Tara!”

“I said you wouldn’t understand,” Giles grumbled and began to pace the living room with his drink.

“Giles, are you and Ethan? Are you doing spells?” she asked timidly.

She was stifling, trying to take control. Giles gripped his glass. “What exactly do you mean by that?”

“Well, you and he…” It was her turn to break off uncertainly. “He’s not making you do things you don’t want to is he?” she said softly. “He’s not hurting you in some way?”

“No he’s not. He’s my friend; he’s looking out for me. He lent me his car so I could pick you up this morning.”

“Giles, I…” She approached in conciliation but Giles suddenly needed his distance back.

“You’re not my mother, so drop it.” He clumsily tried to put his drink on the desk but misjudged the mound of overflowing exam scripts. The glass toppled and crashed to the floor and the waves of paper splashed untidily with it. He kicked out angrily and started to prowl again. “I can take care of myself, Buffy.” And he added with an incredibly bitter tone he normally managed to keep in check, “I thought we had at least established _that_.”

Buffy took a predatory step nearer but Giles shot up the stairs to duck her. He closed the bathroom door quickly behind him. It didn’t have a lock, because he’d never needed such a thing before, so he leant his back to it and studied the floor tiles, and the towel rail, and the slight damp patch over the shower, and most of all, he studied his breathing.

He heard her come up the stairs after him, very slowly. She creaked the floorboards near the bathroom and stopped, waiting for him. She said nothing but he knew she was there. Some minutes passed. The window was still open from clearing the steam from his morning shower. He could hear his annoying student neighbour with the drum kit, and only two minutes worth of rhythm, begin his morning practice session. He was sorely in need of practice but Giles was going to go round and make him eat that hi hat cymbal one of these days.

“I said no to his offer,” he finally admitted. “There’s no magick. There are no spells. I said no.”

“And Dr Clarke?”

Relentlessness was good in a Slayer, he thought gloomily, and beat the back of his head very slowly on the door.

“He’s on vacation. Scuba-diving somewhere I think,” he answered.

After what seemed like an unseemly amount of silence, he heard her retreat downstairs and hung his head at the absurdity of his life hiding in bathrooms from a woman more than half his age. What was her spell? Maybe she was the one that was making him do things he didn’t want to? She was part of his madness, bound up to the hole in his head and all the things he didn’t understand. He closed the window and washed his face, trying to recognise himself in the mirror. Buffy had a power over him that wasn’t about being the Slayer. A power that he thought in his darkest moments might just kill him.

Outside, the drumming had stopped to be replaced by tentative birdsong. As he dried himself, Giles realised with some shame, it was the same hand towel he’d put out for her last visit. He tossed it to the laundry and hung a fresh one. That the only preparation he’d remembered was to change the sheets made him feel slightly sleazy.

When he went down he found her sitting very upright on the couch, one leg hooked under a thigh, with her travel bag ominously on the seat next to her as if ready for departure. She had collected up the broken glass and mopped the scotch but left his papers where they had fallen.  With an ache he realised he didn’t want her to go but he didn’t know how to stop her. He felt she would have left already had it not been for the derailment on the train line.

She was holding her elbows to her side very tightly, looking straight ahead if a little glassily. Giles walked past and knelt at the desk. He carefully separated the fallen example papers and essays into three piles – urgent, next week and overdue – and placed them neatly on his desk. He spotted, with some embarrassment, an old Chinese takeout carton sitting on his laptop and scooped it hurriedly into the kitchen trash. He thought about making tea but she preferred lemon and he hadn’t remembered to buy any groceries.

“I’ll call his office tomorrow and check the appointment,” he offered flatly. He saw her eyes rise in a smile and he repeated “ _tomorrow_ ” to be absolutely clear on his limits in the matter.

“Do you want me,” he began hesitantly, “do you want me to drive you back to the train station now?”

“God no.”

She uncurled her legs and rose quickly to him, touching him gently on the jaw as if unsure of her welcome. Giles didn’t buck and her smile broke free of her eyes and reached her lips. She reached up and kissed him softly at first and then with a tenderness that hinted at their former urgency. And Giles knew he was lost in the power of her salvation. Because in his truly darkest moments, he knew that this was all that was keeping him alive.

He shook his head sadly. “I wish I knew what it is you do want.”

Buffy trailed a fingernail across his lips. “One day you’ll figure it out.”


	8. Push and Pull

**Push and Pull**

It was a little breezy to be walking that night in a London car park in just a strapless silk ball gown and Buffy was grateful for Ryan Appleby’s red mess jacket over her shoulders. They walked casually past the clandestine cigarette smokers as if they were out for a romantic stroll, and not the two highly skilled demon hunters they really were, but the night air did little to tax their senses and Buffy was grateful when one of Ryan’s men came running over to report a disturbance to his commanding officer.

They walked briskly to where a small gathering of his men were grimly tending to an elderly lady who had been victim to an attack. A wooden chair had been produced from somewhere and she sat somewhat dazed by the attention. Her expensive silver evening gown was scuffed and torn and a medical orderly was tending to a nasty wound on her shoulder that was dripping blood down to the ground.

“He tried to kiss me.” Buffy heard the woman say.  She spoke with an upper class British accent Buffy knew commanded respect. Clearly the woman had money and influence and Buffy thought Ryan might have his work cut out in hushing the matter up.  Behind the woman, standing guard, Buffy recognised two of Ryan’s elite men. They had cuts and bruises too and their clothes told a story of recent fighting.  Captain Appleby took charge and asked them first for a report. They spoke of hearing the lady’s scream, intervening, and taking a rather bolshie prisoner that put up quite a protest. They gestured to a parked jeep to their right. Buffy narrowed her eyes, expecting to see a truculent demon or vampire but instead she saw that the figure standing against the vehicle, with one wrist handcuffed to its wing mirror, was Giles. Giles? He too looked like he’d been in a fight and was tugging automatically at his handcuff like a chained animal.

She knew what Ryan was thinking but she set her jaw and pushed her way past the soldiers, marching up to Giles. He seemed to be staring off into the distance in intense thought so she put herself directly in his eye line to get his attention, then resting her fists on her hips, she addressed him.

“Giles?” she demanded.

He dropped his eyes to her and assessed her appearance. Surprisingly, he focused not on her pout but on the borrowed mess jacket. “Not sure about the red with the lilac on most people, but it looks good on you,” he muttered.

“This dress is blue not lilac and what?” This was not, she felt, a good time for either of them to be distracted. “Never mind that, what the hell happened here?”

His answer came with unexpected belligerence. “They jumped me, Buffy. I just… I was merely defending myself,” he snapped. She could recognise the signs of a post-fight adrenaline rush in him. It had been a long time since she’d seen him like that.

“Yes, but why did they jump you?” she asked and when he looked back at her in some puzzlement she hissed in clarification, “Why did the lady scream in the first place? What did you do?”

“What did I-? Oh the scream, yes.”  He pulled on the restraint again. He’d cut through the skin, reopening an old wound, the blood on his wrist made Buffy wince. “Well,” he mustered sarcastically “I imagine she screamed because there was a vampire.”

“A vampire?”

He looked so angry that she should doubt him that he added sarcastically, “Well what are the odds, eh?”

Behind her, the elderly lady in the silver dress had started to raise her voice. “No, no. You’re not listening to me. I wish to make a statement. Who is in charge here?” It was a voice that was used to commanding attention in a two block radius.

Giles tugged on his restraint again and Buffy’s hand wrapped itself quickly on his arm. “Don’t do that please,” she said gently. “It’s bleeding again.”

He snorted away her concern but she could see he was biting his cheek. “I really need to not be cuffed to this thing, Buffy,” he muttered. She nodded her understanding, but unable to make promises, she returned to the small military party gathered to hear the attacked woman’s side of things.

Ryan had knelt to the lady’s side was leading the questions. “I’m the commanding officer here,” he said soothingly. “And I assure you I am listening. Please tell me what happened from the beginning. No-one is trying to cover anything up.” Buffy wondered if the last bit was for her benefit.

The woman began. “I came out for my wrap. It can get chilly you know? I’d left it in the car when we came, and Henry- that’s my husband- Henry-”

“You came out to your car alone,” Ryan cut in gently. “And there was somebody else here, ma’am?”

“Yes, I was alone and then he, I…” she took a breath and closed her eyes as if reliving the moment for sake of veracity. “There was someone behind me and I felt a hand on my throat and I turned and there was a loathsome tramp trying to kiss me. All bushy beard and bad breath, you know the type? Disgusting. I shouted for help, lost my footing a little I suppose, slipped down and that’s when that kind gentleman,” and she pointed to Giles very purposefully, “that’s when he appeared and there was some sort of scuffle. I wasn’t paying attention from the ground. I don’t know what happened exactly then. Your men, I gather, arrived sometime after that.” She said with some reproach before looking down at her wounded shoulder. “Good heavens, he bit me. He actually bit me! Am I going to need some sort of rabies shot?”

“I don’t think so, ma’am, but we should get you to hospital just for a check-up” Ryan rose, pulled a face, and silently handed Buffy the cuff keys.

“I can help you find the ‘tramp’,” she offered.

“No, my men can manage, now that they’ve arrived,” he added ruefully. “You just get your personal Jekyll and Hyde out of here.”  He shook his head in amusement. “Take him home Buffy, or calm him down or something, before I start to remember those useful contacts of mine.” He grinned. “Didn’t I say once a demon hunter, always a demon hunter?”

Buffy took the keys gratefully and unlocked the handcuff on the wing mirror. She scowled at the man she’d just released, angry that he should have acted so rashly.

“You took on a vampire by yourself, Giles? Are you completely insane? Which way did it go?”

“It didn’t go anywhere,” Giles replied somewhat huffily, “because funnily enough, as it turns out, it _is_ like riding a bicycle. I spotted it out here and I followed it for a bit and when it attacked, I staked it. So why don’t you go back to your dancing soldier?  I’m doing fine here all by myself.”

“You did what?” Buffy saw red. “You knew I was here! You should have come and found me.”

“I didn’t need you. I don’t need you,” he said with great dignity.

Buffy snapped the open cuff on her own wrist and threw the keys over her shoulder. Giles’ great dignity was replaced by equal parts uncertainty but Buffy didn’t give a rats ass.

“Come with me, now!” she ordered and pulled the connection so hard that Giles gave a surprised yelp. She yanked again gave him a menacing look. “Walk or be dragged along face first, I really don't care which at this point.” She set off at a brisk pace and Giles opted to sullenly keep up with her.

She moved determinedly, and headed back to the main house and then skirted round the kitchens and fire escapes till she found a quiet dark alcove with large yellow dumpsters full of trash. There was a thin amber light from a window above but otherwise only moonlight to see by. She pushed him violently against the far wall.

“You could have been killed.”

“Well thanks for the vote of confidence,” he replied angrily.

“Do you do this a lot? Going out and hunting? I really don’t want to have to worry about you pulling this sort of shit.”

“No I don’t, but it’s really none of your business if I did.”  He tried to push her away. “Isn’t your boyfriend going to notice we’re missing? Or is he OK with that sort of thing? Did you tell him you were dragging me off for a quickie?”

At that snarky remark, Buffy punched him full in the jaw. Giles went down untidily and Buffy, tethered at the wrist as she was, fell with him. They wrestled and disturbed a cat feeding in the trash. It shrieked off into the night with a great deal of offence. Giles slapped away Buffy’s hands and managed to get his knees. He loomed over her bitterly, cutting off the slim light from above.

“Does he know about your visits? How I can barely get the door closed before you’re ripping my clothes off? How you screw the old man’s brains out, just to give him something to never forget?”  His spite and anger was palpable as tried to grab her wrist. “So he’ll be a good boy and won’t do anything stupid till she comes round with the treats again.”

Buffy slipped his grasp and punched him again. He hit the wall and she tried to roll on top of him.

“It’s not like that, you jerk. Stop it. Stop saying these things.”

“Why? It’s what we do and this is where we belong isn’t it? Getting down and dirty where no-one can see us? Like it was with you and Spike.”

She had never known him capable of such venom. “It’s not the same thing at all,” she protested, pulling at his sleeves and managing only to rip the fabric.

Giles pushed her hard and tried to stand again.  “I don’t want a vampire’s sloppy seconds,” he snarled. “So be a dear, take a hint, and fuck off.”

Buffy responded by barrelling into him with all her energy and taking the ground from under him. Her momentum slammed them hard into a dumpster causing it to tumble and shed its putrid contents around them. The smell of rotting vegetables, milk and meat was appalling but they rolled and wrestled for control, crashing through the plastic bags that split and vomited more garbage as they fought. Giles had bulk and size and an anger she’d never seen in him before, but Buffy had guile and slayer skills and a greater willingness to hurt him if she had to. She kneed him in the stomach, caught him off guard with blow to his shoulder and threw herself astride his chest, pinning his arms as he fought for breath and bucked against her dominance. She held up their cuffed wrists as a reminder.

“Oh no, Giles. I am not letting you go.  You left me in Sunnydale. Said I had to be strong. Said you were leaving me for my own good. But that’s not how it works.”

Giles wriggled in a momentary panic. “So what, this is revenge is it?” His voice betrayed an edge of fear at his vulnerability. It occurred to Buffy that it was highly unlikely he’d been in such a situation since his father had been turned. His breathing was very raggedly. “Do you want to hurt me? Is this what this has all been about?”

“No, of course not,” Buffy felt a little sick that he should ever think that. “It means I know what’s the right thing to do.” As Buffy took some deep breaths to calm herself, Giles still looked warily like she was about to literally tear his head off. “I know what it feels like to be you right now.” Buffy spoke calmly and tentatively let her hand release its grip on his arm. “I know you hate yourself so much and you don’t know why. I know you want to drive everyone away so they won’t notice when you finally disappear yourself. Well newsflash, Rupert Giles, I’m not letting you do that to yourself.”

“Fuck off, Buffy,” he spat back. “I don’t need your pity.”

“Tough shit, Giles. I’m not going anywhere. You want to hit rock bottom? Fine, but I’m coming right down there with you.”

“Why?” he challenged bitterly. “You weren’t bloody there when it mattered.”

His words cut her more than the swearing and the crude insults had done. Because there was something in the way he’d spoken them that set her senses to maximum. There had been an edge in his voice that stung a little more than the mere cattiness of his statement.

“I was picking up Dawn from the airport. She called and wanted to surprise you on your birthday,” she stumbled in explanation.

Surprisingly he shrank back from her. “I know,” he said. “So you’ve said. I know. I’m sorry.” He didn’t want to talk and Buffy knew there was more.

“But come on, say it. You’ve never said it. Say I should have been there that night.”  Her words were slow and thoughtful.  She searched his eyes in the faint light of the alcove.

“Yes. You were late,” he snapped petulantly.

“Is this British reserve and politeness?” she mocked. “ ‘cos come on Giles, you can do better than that.”

He glared and rocked under her but she held him fast and waited.

“You were late, Buffy. You were fucking late.” His anger rose and spilled out. “You are always late. The Late Buffy, it’s no wonder you’ve died twice.  Always fucking late and leaving me to pick up the pieces, leaving me to kill my own...”

A cold chill gripped Buffy’s soul as she waited for him to finish the sentence that he was fighting against.

“You remember,” she said quietly.

All the fight and bluster evaporated from Giles. She felt the tension in his body sag.

“Shit. Leave me alone.”

“Tell me.”

“No.”

Buffy waited. She could wait all night and they both knew it.

“I tried so hard to wait for you and you were so fucking late. He was going to turn me and I ran out of time waiting for you. I pushed a stake into his frail ribcage and I heard the bones snap like twigs. Oh god. I killed him, Buffy. I actually had to kill him. _Like riding a bloody bicycle_ ,” he choked.

Giles was nothing beneath her, his bulk and mass seemed to have vanished, like a small boy caught in a painful confession and shrinking into the earth. He’d wanted to crawl into the dumpster with the garbage rather than tell her and she’d ripped it out of him anyway. Buffy slipped off his chest and hugged his face and shoulders. He was sobbing hard and shaking, not wanting her to see his pain but also too tired of the struggle to push her away completely. Buffy hugged him tightly in her arms sharing an intimacy of emotions he’d tried to lock her out of for so long. As they rocked and cried together among the trash, Buffy knew she had gone beyond the physical, and finally made an emotional connection to Giles. 


	9. Morning Glory

**Morning Glory**

Giles woke from a surprisingly heavy sleep and reached for his glasses automatically. There was gentle female snoring to his side and he reflected that for a man that had lived alone most of his life, he always slept remarkably well with company in his bed. He opened his eyes and remembered that he wasn’t actually in his own bed but Buffy’s, and technically as they lay in a hotel suite, it wsn't even her bed. He looked around the room with a yawn. The hotel drapes were the heavy set kind that gave no clues as to the relative position of the sun and he couldn’t remember what he’d done with his watch. He shifted his position carefully and saw Buffy was curled over one arm and breathing with a slightest of whistles. As he had no idea as to the time of day, he decided not to disturb her, and slipped quietly from the duvet. She didn’t stir at the motion of the mattress so Giles carefully unhooked one of the white towelling robes from the door and made off to investigate the rest of her suite. He found his clothes in a heap on the floor near the couch and retrieved his watch from the coffee table. It was just shy of seven in the morning.

He used the bathroom and washed his face and arms. The robe was designed for someone about a foot shorter than he was which didn't help his modesty. He pulled it across his chest as best he could and returned to the living area. He thought about re-dressing in his clothes from the previous night. He thought seriously about whether he should just leave and go home. Did she want him to stay? He’d missed his lift back the previous night, so staying with her had been the practical solution but perhaps he’d just be in the way today? He wondered how much attention he would draw in his filthy evening dress and what time the trains started up on a Saturday in London. As he checked his jacket pocket he found his mobile phone had one message. It was from Ethan.

_How did the posh works do go? Did you get drunk? Did you get laid? Enquiring minds want to know._

Giles smiled and keyed in a response.

_Very dull. Lot of academics and some military brass. No-one so much as spiked the punch, so not your sort of thing at all._

He raked the curtains across their heavy metallic pole to find Buffy’s suite had a rather impressive view across the Thames. The sun was sparkling on the water and polishing the familiar landmarks for the benefit of the tourists. Two policemen were walking a lazy patrol; one had his thumbs in his stab vest whilst his partner was laughing at something he’d said. Giles’ phone rang and he jumped to answer it quickly.

“You didn't come home last night, you dog.” Ethan’s rich voice warmed his ear.

“And how do you know that?”

Ethan affected a hurt voice. “I can't wait up? I can't worry?”

The bedroom door opened and Buffy appeared in tee-shirt and panties. She smiled at him and Giles gripped the phone rather guiltily.

“Actually old man,” Ethan said, as Giles pushed the phone closer to his ear so Buffy couldn’t make out who was calling. “I keep a locator spell open on you when you're not under the mystical protection of ancient academia.  London is a dangerous place, as we both know. It's a city that can turn a boy’s head.” He paused for effect. “How's yours this morning?”

“Just a minute,” Giles stammered and held the phone to his heart by way of muting it. Buffy eyed him in curiosity for a moment, but then shrugged and gestured to the shower. Giles nodded his understanding and waited for her to close the bathroom door.

“Now is not really a good time,” he whispered to the phone.

Ethan’s voice switched from his customary purr to concern. “Is everything OK? You're not in chokey or anything are you?”

Giles snorted. “One where they let you keep your phone?” he mocked.

He heard the water in the shower start up. Giles sat on the couch and looked at the view outside again. “No. I'm fine.  I just stayed over in town for the night that's all.”

Ethan was ecstatic. “You did get laid!”

“No actually, no.” Giles adjusted the dressing gown but it still wasn’t a good fit on a man his height. “It really wasn't that sort of night,” he added truthfully.

There was a long pause before Ethan spoke again. “You would tell me if you weren't OK wouldn't you?”

“Probably.”

“Would you tell me if you weren't alone?” he asked slyly.

“Probably not.”

Ethan chuckled darkly “Be safe Rupert. Or if you can't be safe, be wild and glorious.”

“Yeah. You too. Be seeing you.”

Giles put the phone down and wondered if he was expected to join Buffy in the shower. He’d never been anywhere with her other than his own house, and even though it was a hotel, it was still her place. He didn’t know the rules. He didn’t know what was expected of him. A knock at the door saved him from having to make a fool of himself - if she had ordered breakfast to the room, then her plans did not involve anything physical that early in the day. He tightened the knot of his robe self-consciously and opened the door. It was not room service: to his alarm, it was the boyfriend.

“Captain Appleby,” Giles managed to say, deeply conscious of the compromising position he was in. That he remembered the name of Buffy’s young soldier would be no consolation if this young soldier wanted to object to what the hell he was doing in Buffy’s room wearing nothing but an ill-fitting bathrobe. There were limits to the social niceties after all.

“Dr Giles.” The young man replied with a smile that seemed to border on a smirk. He was wearing civilian clothes and carrying a plastic sheet parcel that looked like it had its origins from a drycleaners. “Is Buffy in?”

“No,” Giles realised the idiocy of his denial immediately. “Yes, but she’s in the shower.” He added, and realised that maybe that wasn’t the best thing to say in his barely dressed circumstances. Like a bad farce, the door of the bathroom opened and Giles prayed to every deity he’d ever read about that Buffy wasn’t naked. She was humming happily to herself and Giles stole a cautious glance: she had dressed in pink jeans and white tee-shirt. Proof perhaps there was a deity of some description  after all.

“Hey, Ryan,” she said, greeting her visitor in a remarkably casual tone. “Come to trade?”

“Yes please.”  He tossed the parcel he was carrying to Giles. “Buffy asked me to do the personal shopper thing,” he added, grinning amiably. “Though actually I didn’t have time so I raided Stores instead, but they should fit you.”

Giles was perplexed.

“You can’t wear a tux on a Saturday morning,” Buffy added in explanation. “Especially not one in that state.”

“Oh.” She’d made plans at some point then. Plans to get him a change of clothes. Maybe plans to get him a train ticket home too? Giles looked from Appleby to Buffy and decided sadly he was surplus to requirements.

“Have you got my mess jacket?” Appleby asked.

“Sure.” Buffy darted to the floor where she’d dropped the official dress uniform of an Officer of Her Majesty’s elite forces, the night before. It was torn, grimy and smelt of turnips and off-milk. It was a garment that was never going to meet the Queen again. Appleby stared at it for a moment.

“Did you two not have time to set fire to it as well?” he deadpanned.

Giles waved his parcel in thanks and took the opportunity to escape to the bedroom and leave them to it. He shut the door to give them all some privacy. Buffy’s world was so different to the one he’d known and her personal life was really none of his business. He dressed and found the clothes were a good fit if a little heavy on the khaki theme. The trousers were a comfortable length and though the officer rank shirt had loops on the shoulders for epaulettes, it was largely passable as civilian and of a good quality material. He buttoned the cuffs and looked in the mirror in some shock. In the seventies there had been a trend for customising army surplus as a protest against the military and the Cold War and he’d gleefully bought a West German army shirt from a market stall, and had ripped the sleeves and added various mod and CND badges. As a young man, he’d been ridiculously proud of that shirt and its gesture to society, and now he was older and wearing the same thing as part of the Establishment. He felt a little uneasy at that thought.

He tidied the bedroom for something to do: pulling back the bedding and drawing open the curtains. He found the suite came with a small balcony so he unlocked the catch and stepped out. The sun didn’t reach that side of the building in the morning and the air was cold. Giles leaned on the small metal balcony guard where it promptly froze his hands. His father had thought his army shirt disrespectful but he’d practically slept in the thing just to spite him. In fact, when he’d dropped out of the Council and gone to London, he _had_ slept in it. Those were the days when he was truly wild and glorious; when the only consequences seemed to amount to his own death, not the death of other people.

Buffy came near the windows and cleared her throat tentatively.

“Giles?”

He had a memory of Ethan borrowing his shirt and he hadn’t minded. They’d shared everything back then. He’d probably never gotten it back though…

“What are you doing out there?” she asked gently.

He gripped the balcony rail and stared out to the river. “I just thought I should give you two some privacy. Or do you want me to go for a walk?”

“No, Ryan’s already gone. His team are shipping out to Germany this morning. There’s ‘something nasty in the Bavarian woodsheds’ apparently.”

He nodded but still took more of an interest in the Thames. There was an early jogger on the Southbank and a barge owner was opening up his door for fresh air. They at least were sights that hadn’t changed in thirty years.

“Giles?” Buffy had said his name almost as a snap and he turned to see her still wet hair fall over her shoulders. “It’s getting cold in here,” she softened. “Why don’t you come inside and we can close the French doors?”

He did as he was bid. Buffy locked the catch firmly as he sat on the bed, then she inspected him in his borrowed persona.

“From roughed up James Bond to sexpot GI Joe,” she said warmly. He just grunted in reply. Girls and uniforms…Appleby was a perfect match for her. She was looking at him now though in a different way. She looked concerned for some reason. “What’s the matter?” she asked.

He recognised he was being churlish in ignoring her, so he made the effort.

“I’m fine. I’m sorry he had to go so soon. Should I offer to pay for the damage to his mess jacket?”

“Nah, I don’t think so.” She grinned in that slightly foxy way she had and added conspiratorially, “You should have seen what I did to his tank.” Giles thought he probably didn’t want to. She sat on the bed next to him. “I like the shirt. The color suits you.”

“I can’t go back,” he said, his voice all of a rush. “I can’t do this.”

She reached for his hand and he didn’t fight it. “What? Can’t do what? Giles, what’s wrong? Talk to me.”

“This. All of this. You can dress me up as a soldier but it doesn’t mean I can be one.”

“What?” She looked at him like he was crazy. “No-one is suggesting anything like that…”

It _was_ a crazy thing to say and he knew it. He needed to explain it better.

“I don’t mean a real soldier. I mean I can’t be a Watcher again. Last night hasn’t changed that, if anything it has confirmed it.”

“Whoa. Where’s this coming from? These are just clothes. Breathe, Giles.”

“I am breathing and I’m telling you I can't be a Watcher again. I know I went back to it before, after Eyghon, but that was different. I didn't have anything else, and I think, deep down, I only did it to make my parents happy.”  He pulled at the top buttons on the shirt irrationally, he wanted to pop the stitching but it was too well made. “And I don’t have that now.”

“Alright, it’s OK.” Buffy reached for his hands to stop him. Her skin was soft despite the power it hid. She rubbed a thumb over his tense knuckle. “I understand. No going back. These are just clothes, they don’t mean anything.”

“But are you disappointed with me?” The words escaped before he could stop them. He didn’t want to force the issue and yet he had.

“Of course not.”

“It's what you want isn't it? Everyone back on the team. That’s why you’re here.”

She put her head to one side. “That’s not why I’m here. I don't want anything that is going to hurt you. I know I can't rewind the clock. You have a new life that’s relatively safe, and that’s what I want for you. No-one is enlisting you back into the fight here.”

She looked so earnest he felt guilty. “Sorry. I’m being stupid aren’t I?”

“Not really. I’m glad you’re telling me this. I’ve had a lot of conversations without you. This is good. After breakfast, why don't we go shopping and get you something else to wear? Something you pick yourself, however gross,” she teased.

“Aren't you going to Germany?” he asked.

“No, that’s strictly a NATO nature ramble. It’s nothing to do with me.”

“But what about your soldier?”

“He's going but…oh I see. Giles,” and again she looked so earnestly at him it hurt. “Ryan is a soldier, but he’s not _my_ soldier.”

He didn't understand. “But don’t you have somewhere else to be? You are the Slayer.”

“Not today. Today I'm all yours. Whatever you want to do.”

He crumbled, but in a good way. “I’m sorry. These are just clothes, you’re right and I am being stupid. You wouldn’t want a Watcher that panics in the face of beige anyway.” She beamed and he smiled shyly back.

“It’s nice to hear you make jokes about it. I’ve missed that more than I can tell you.”

He rolled up the sleeves untidily so it looked less formal.

“Better?” he asked.

She nodded and, surprisingly, leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead.

“Let me finish my hair and then we’ll get some breakfast. After that, we’ll do anything you want to. Deal?”

Giles nodded at her bright energy and even grinned back,  but privately he knew he had absolutely no idea what he wanted to do next.


	10. New Pasture

**New Pasture**

Giles blinked as he heard a very odd question.

_“Rupert, can you tell me where you are?”_

Someone had removed his glasses and he was sitting down – he knew that much. It took him an effort to remember that he’d heard that voice before and quite recently and as he puzzled over where, he became aware that there actually two other people in the room with him. Both crouched either side of him and both looking concerned.

“Eh?” he grunted, dimly conscious it wasn’t a terribly polite way to join the conversation.

“Do you know where you are? Who I am?”

Giles took a deep breath to clear his head. “You are Dr Clarke and this is your office,” he replied slowly.

The younger man in slacks and lambswool sweater smiled and handed him back his glasses before rising to his feet. But before Giles could put them on, the second figure, who had been checking his pulse and who he had belatedly realised was the doctor’s receptionist, smartly flashed a pocket light into his pupils causing him to flinch.

“You gave us a bit of scare,” she said with a voice warm with relief. “You were shut down there for quite some time.” The light snapped off as she appeared satisfied and then she too rose allowing Giles to finally slip his glasses back on and clear his throat.

“I'm fine, really,” he replied. “Must have nodded off. Sorry. It is quite warm in here.” He ran a finger round the back of his damp shirt collar.

Clarke meanwhile had moved to the water cooler and fought free a couple of plastic cups from the side arm. Filling both he returned and put them on the small coffee table in front of Giles.

“How many times have you experienced these kinds of episodes before?” he asked.

Giles ignored the water. “I haven't. I probably just fainted. I can’t have been out for more than a few seconds.”

“You appeared to freeze on us for nearly six minutes, Mr Giles,” the receptionist said gently. “Your pulse and breathing were fine. You just…stopped.”

Clarke restated his earlier question but with a new insistent edge. “Has this happened before, Rupert?”

Giles stood shakily and fidgeted in his pockets for his bus pass.

“Six minutes?” he said airily. “Really? Well then our appointment must be over by now. I'm so sorry to have inconvenienced you.” He made for the door but Clarke’s voice grew firmer.

“We have to talk about this now, Rupert.”

“With respect, no we don't. We can pick this up next month.”

“Rupert.” Clarke’s blue eyes hardened to steel. “If I'm not satisfied, I have a responsibility to report such events to the relevant authorities. The Driving Agency for one. If there's a risk you could blank out like that behind the wheel of a car, I have to report it.”

“Oh fuck it all, man,” Giles exclaimed in exasperation but then, remembering the receptionist and his manners, he blushed and added a sheepish, “sorry.” To which she returned him a wry smile, nodded to the doctor and then left the two men alone in the therapist’s office, the door closing behind her with a firm click.

“Would you like to sit down again?”  Clarke asked politely.

“Not really,” Giles admitted. Pushing over towards the window, he leaned his back against the far wall obscuring the framed print of a non-descript English hillside scene, and folded his arms. Clarke in turn moved to face him, leaning against the back of his own chair and subtly blocking the exits. He was a tall man with a thickset chest and had, Giles thought, the confident air of a man who’d played formidable rugby at an expensive boarding school. Giles didn’t fancy trying to tackle him certainly.

“You were telling me about the vampire you staked when you were in London. It was an old tramp you said, in a car park?”

“Are you trying to repeat the experiment? See if I can blank out again. Like a party trick?”

Clarke shook his head. “It’s highly unlikely you would react the same way again. Mentally, whatever triggered it wouldn't be as much a shock the second time around.  But it is important we understand what just happened and to go over everything whilst everything is still fresh in your memory. I know this is hard for you but we have to go through everything again and this time, tell me what you were thinking about, tell me what you were feeling as we talked.”

“You don’t want much do you?” griped Giles.

“You were telling me about London. About the vampire,” Clarke continued, ignoring the interruption. “And about seeing Buffy again. Now start from the beginning when you first came in for your appointment.”

Giles sighed heavily but began.

 ***

 

“Hello Rupert, So tell me, how have you been?”

Giles sat down confidently in the armchair opposite Dr Clarke and maintained a steady eye contact. “I’ve been good, actually, very good. In fact I even killed a vampire last month,” he said assertively.

If he’d been hoping to shock, he’d failed because Clarke just nodded encouragingly as if it were everyday news or at least the sort of news he’d been expecting to hear.

“OK then,” Clarke re-joined brightly “Why don’t you start by telling me about that? What happened exactly?”

Giles felt his own confidence wane slightly. He hadn’t really anticipated the man would want the details, he’d just wanted him to be impressed and leave it at that. He wasn’t ready to share all the aspects and insights of that night. His mind raced and his focus shifted the framed landscape print on the wall to the doctor’s right. It was a tranquil, pastoral scene that showed a shepherd and two dogs driving a flock of sheep from a green open field through a gate into a new pasture that wasn’t in view.

“Rupert,” Clarke prompted gently, “Tell me what you can about what happened.”

Reluctantly, Giles left the sheep to fend for themselves. “Oh, it wasn't particularly special. An old tramp. Not very experienced - probably quite new. It wasn't a great battle or anything like that. I just killed it.”

Clarke let the silence grow and Giles became aware he’d resorted to nervous, clipped sentences that always attracted the other man’s interest.

And indeed the therapist pulled on his earlobe slightly and asked, “Where was this?”

Giles, wondering if perhaps he had been somewhat misleading, sought to clarify the exact location. Of course, vampires did not flourish in his present academic town because of the Old Magicks and so perhaps he had in some way alarmed the younger man. Clarke wasn’t Council. He’d probably never seen a vampire in his life.

“Oh, it wasn’t around here,” he reassured. “It was down in London. I had to attend a thing. For work. The college that is. A ball. There was dancing.” He fought to keep the narrative on track. “A car park. It was in a car park. Buffy was there,” he added by way of corroboration.

That only seemed to pique Clarke’s interest further. “But you killed it? Not Buffy?”

“She wasn't there then,” Giles clarified, fearing the story was in danger of slipping away from him. “She came later, she came out to the car park later I mean.” He hated to feel himself fluster in front of this man. He wanted to be free of him and his professional concern and decidedly free from his comforting smile and the friendly blue eyes that tried to rip open your soul and trap you into saying things. “She was inside dancing with someone else which left me to deal with things. But that's not why I'm telling you this. The thing is, when I killed it, something happened. I suddenly had a strong flashback, a memory, if you will, of what happened, what happened that night.”

“The night your father was turned?” The bastard would want him to clarify that.

“Yes.” Giles gripped the arm of the chair slightly. “I remembered killing him.” He felt proud at the matter of fact way he’d managed to speak the last part. He’d known he would have to say it out loud at some point to the doctor and had actually practiced in front of the bathroom mirror. “I remember it all now.”

“Go on,” said Clarke, exhibiting his usual dispiriting habit of skipping all of Giles’ little triumphs and demanding he push himself further. “What exactly happened with your father?”

That was a question too far, too soon, and Giles shut it down quickly. He wasn’t ready to discuss that night with anyone. Not even with Buffy. “That's private and I really don't have to tell you the details.”

Clarke smiled warmly. “Not if you don't want to, no. Not yet.”

“I don't. And it’s not really important for you to know.” Giles’ anger came quickly, fighting with the adrenaline to get his point across. “I only agreed to come to these sessions because I couldn't remember what happened that night. Well, now that I can, I think that's the end of it. I don't think we need any further appointments.”

He should have risen at that point and run, but his arms felt heavy and his legs felt weak as if he were pinned to the chair. His delay gave the therapist an opportunity to raise a broad friendly hand as if in submission and acceptance of the situation.

“Of course, and I see your point,” Clarke said softly. “But as we still have time on the clock. Why don’t you humour me a little while longer?”

Giles folded his arms. “I'm not discussing my father.”

“OK, tell me some more about the tramp.”

“Why?” Giles was genuinely surprised at that switch in the interrogation. “He's really not important.”

“You thought he was important enough to be a threat. Important enough to kill.”

“All vampires are important enough to kill,” Giles replied coldly.

“How did you know he was a threat?”

“I saw him following one of the elderly guests from the ball. And when he attacked her I intervened. I’d say that was pretty threatening.”

“But how did you know he was a vampire? Did you see his face?”

Giles didn’t like where he thought Clarke was taking things.

“Look, he really was. He turned to dust when I put a stake in his heart. I didn't just kill an innocent man,” he said hotly. He wanted to stand, to pace, but something always held him in that damn chair, talking to that damn doctor.

“I was just curious how you knew that's all. I don't have your field knowledge.”

Giles grumbled, shifted uncomfortably in his chair, and started to count the sheep in the picture. There had to be at least twenty. His mother had once told him as a boy that there had to be at least twenty before they could be considered a flock.

“I knew he was a vampire because he was clumsy,” he replied finally. “He was inexperienced enough to show his face and his intentions. As they learn they get more cunning. He was clearly just attacking the first target he saw. I mean, imagine it, some vampire turned a homeless person for fun and left him to fend for himself. That’s sick really. He wasn't going to do much damage.”

“Interesting.”  Clarke genuinely seemed interesting in learning more. “How do vampires gain experience when they are first turned?”

Giles relaxed. “Oh, they learn by killing,” he began, feeling safe on what was for him at least, an academic topic. “Usually the easiest targets are their own families.”

There was a very long stubborn pause in the room that Giles vowed he was not going to be the one to end. He began to re-count the sheep in the picture. Maybe there were less than twenty after all. Maybe some had got away. That idea pleased him a lot.

“But this tramp wouldn't have a family,” Clarke reasoned.

“No,” Giles agreed and pulled at his shirt collar. The doctor’s office was always kept a little too warm for his liking.

Clarke lent forward to ask, “So why did he upset you?”

“He didn’t.”

“On some level he did. Killing him triggered some memories you haven't been able to access. Why is that do you think?”

“The violence probably. Or the familiarity of the act of dusting. I don't know. I don’t think it matters.”

“He seems an unlikely choice for someone to sire,” Clarke continued. “Do vampires usually turn their victims?”

“No. No, they don't. It was a strange choice. He was old for one thing and not as sharp as he used to be. Vampires usually turn their victims out of amusement or for pleasure. They usually pick the young or the attractive whereas turning an older man whose faculties were declining would be a cruel joke... He'd probably just go for long walks and people would worry he'd forgotten his way home. ..And he’d be returning to a state of innocence and just playing with the dogs…  Bad enough to be losing him to senility, then to have him come back as a killer…”

“Are we still talking about the tramp?”

_The old fox was in the hen house. The wolf was in the fold._

“Rupert? Are you alright? Can you hear me?”

_The sheep weren’t in the other field. They hadn’t escaped. He could see them all clearly with their throats ripped out. He’d wanted to remember what happened and now he couldn’t stop remembering it. It was everywhere around him. There was slaughter everywhere and he couldn’t stop seeing it…_

 

 

***

Giles was surprised to find they had been talking for nearly two hours. In that time the receptionist had brought in tea and they had returned to the armchairs and whilst Giles had addressed a good deal of his words at the table and carpet, he had indeed managed to get to the end of his narrative without making a fool of himself a second time.

Dr Clarke turned his body round to contemplate the landscape picture. “It’s supposed to be soothingly pastoral,” he said thoughtfully.

Giles cradled half a mug of now cold tea and shook his head. “It’s not the picture’s fault,” he mused. “I thought things would be better once I remembered everything. That there would be something we’d missed or just something to help it all make sense.” he swallowed hard. “I suppose I’d hoped there had been a mistake and that somehow it hadn’t really been him.”

“That’s quite normal. You haven’t consciously remembered before, but the trauma has been sitting unprocessed in your head for some time. You have been fighting to believe both it and what people have been telling you happened.”

“I thought once I’d filled the gap in my memory, it would all be over,” Giles admitted as he swirled the last of the tea in his mug.  “But I suppose it isn’t.”

Clarke leant forward, earnestly seeking out Giles’ eyes with his own blue ones.  “But I think we have made some progress today. You have managed to be a lot more honest with me than you have been previously.” He smiled. “Is it over? No. Can you go back to how things were before? No, but who among us can do that anyway? Today, Rupert, we touched on perhaps some of the reasons the traumatic event of your father’s death continues to affect you the way it does. And that is progress. You were the victim of a terrible and traumatic event but we can work together to help you process the experience.”

“My life has been full of traumatic events,” Giles grumbled. “I’ve never ‘blanked out’ due to one of those. And I’ve never needed a shrink before.”

“Most people don’t.” Clarke sat back in his chair and nodded. “I specialise in working with the police, the fire service and the military, people who see a lot of horror and are just fine about it. Until one day, something sticks and they are not fine anymore. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Do you cure them?”

“Mostly.” Before Giles could interrupt the doctor continued quickly, “It’s not take two tablets and see me in the morning. My patients have to work with me. And to that end I really think we should schedule our next appointments more frequently from now on.”

“Of course.” Giles finished his cold tea in a decisive, single gulp and rose.  He’d been sitting far too long in one place, taking up too much of the doctor’s time, maybe keeping the receptionist from going home for the day.  He rubbed the back of his neck and decided to forego the bus ride home and to walk instead. He had some serious thinking to do and the hour or so it would take to go via the meadow lane would be free from distraction. He needed fresh air to help him think and to decide what to do next.

Clarke had also risen so Giles stuck out his hand and the two men shook. “Thank you for all your help, doctor,” he said simply. “As you say, we’ve made progress.” Clarke had a strong grip and regarded him shrewdly for a moment but eventually the doctor let go and Giles let himself out of the office.


	11. Old Self

**Old Self**

As it turned out, Buffy was not the only person hauling a cardboard box that morning. The last of the young students were similarly encumbered, making short trips to their parents’ double parked estate cars to cram in yet more of their worldly possessions. Others were balancing boxes on the seats of bicycles and heading further afield to the train station. Exams sat and final papers submitted, the student population was in exodus for the summer, keen to relax in villas or sweat at internships leaving only the permanent population of the town breathing a sigh of relief for another year.

Buffy’s box however did not contain books or clothes. She confidently cut through the lines of exasperated parents fearing for their car’s suspension and along School Street and across the front part of Giles’ house. The pavement narrowed under her feet and the rumbling traffic increased. As a consequence of street plans laid down before the invention of automobiles, all of the front doors on that row had fallen to disuse. Some were boarded up completely and many had faded handwritten messages to postmen and visitors that the correct entrance was now to be found around the back of the property.

As she looked at the house Giles rented, Buffy was a little surprised to see the heavy curtains that over looked the street had been opened and that, even more surprisingly, the sash window on his bedroom had been raised and propped open with a study hardback book. In her previous visits she hadn’t known him to care about such things and hadn’t thought that rattling old window even capable of letting in air. She rounded the corner and entered the small courtyard area that held Giles’ house at the head of a group of eight properties. The stone flagged quad area had been garnished with a wrought iron patio table with set of chairs and there were feeble balloons tied to it and evidence of streamers and aerosol string. Remains of an end of term no doubt, though there were no signs of life in any of the seven other houses. Buffy was grateful for once, to not have to run the gauntlet of interested undergraduates, eager to satisfy their curiosity about the mysterious Dr Giles and his occasional American visitor.

She freed a hand and rang the doorbell, reluctant to simply walk in even though his door was slightly propped open. It had been six weeks since they had stayed in London together and she was anxious to see how he was. After the events of the London ball, he had been pretty quiet but more thoughtful than his usual zombie moments. They had spent a comfortable two days in the hotel, having food delivered and sitting on the couch. Giles seemed to be processing his memories and Buffy had been waiting for the inevitable backlash, but it hadn't come. At least, it hadn't come then, for though she had been prepared to wait him out and stay with him as long as it took, a high ranking emissary had interrupted, insisting the French government urgently needed her help. Giles had seized on the excuse to hop the first train and Buffy had reluctantly crossed the channel home again.

Six weeks had been too long a time. The authorities had been in a panic because a gang of vampires with a sense of the gothic, had taken up residence in the Parisian catacombs. Their feeding pattern of picking off stray tourists had raised their profile, and as the area was public and historically sensitive, Buffy could not deploy explosives or risk any damage to such a valuable site. She therefore had had a difficult time eradicating them, and had spent every one of those six weeks wearing them down like a stubborn strain on delicate fabric.

All the while she had no contact from Giles other than an acknowledgement by text for her visit that day. She really hadn’t liked leaving him for so long and took a deep breath as the door opened. She would cope with whatever state he was in. She had to.

“Buffy, hello.”

“Wow.”

He was about as far from zombie Giles in a bathrobe as he could get. He was wearing suit pants, a crisply ironed shirt and even a tie. What’s more, he was clean shaven and his hair was neatly cut and spruced. He even smiled warmly at her as he opened the door wider for her to scoot in.

“Wow, Giles. Hi. How have you been?” This question that had burned uppermost on her mind now seemed ridiculously formal when actually voiced out loud.

“Good,” he replied with sparkling amusement. “How are you, Buffy?”

“I'm good too,” she answered lamely, wondering why their relationship had gone so Jane Austen all of a sudden.

“I’m delighted to hear it,” he said formally, then added, “however, I am a little busy right now. I'm afraid I'm in the middle of marking exam papers and end of term work.” He gestured to the mahogany dining table he’d been using as his main desk. Across it were neat stacks of work and his MacBook Pro was waiting obediently for data entry on his left hand side.

“Oh.”

He stood expectantly, his eyes flitting from hers to the box she had quite forgotten she was carrying. Evidently directly asking ‘what's in the cardboard box’ wasn’t covered by the protocols of Jane Austen etiquette.

“Ah, yes.” She took his hint and set about explaining. “I figured since I was arriving in time for lunch, I probably ought to bring groceries. In case you hadn't been out much.”

He nodded gravely and said, “That is very kind of you.” He leant towards her and began to take the box from her arms. As he did so Buffy reached a hand for his waist but he was already turning towards the kitchen and flicked his hips just out of her reach. “I will reimburse you for these of course.”

Awkwardly she pulled her hand through her hair. “No need.”

“I insist. I will put these away for now. Make yourself at home.”

He shuffled off to the kitchen and her eyes checked over the living area. The light from the nearly opened curtains that backed onto School Street was dull but added new colours to the palette of the room. She had expected to see dust dancing on the thermals but there was little, in fact even the cobweb in the far top corner of the bookcase had been removed. There was no sign of the usual clutter of takeout cartons and used plates and in the corner, Giles' records and cd s were neatly stacked instead of sprawling across the floor.

“Wow. Did you get a maid?” she shouted.

“No.” Came the slightly exasperated reply. “That's what Ethan said too.”

Buffy frowned and followed his voice to the entrance of the kitchen. Everything was spotless there too with the drainer bearing only a few clean plates and mugs, all neatly stacked and nothing evil or plague carrying was festering in the sink.

Giles was kneeling in the small space and filling his refrigerator and vegetable rack. The kitchen had never been big enough space for two people so she lingered and watched him before casually asking, “Has Ethan been here recently?”

“Tea bags?” Giles exclaimed with amusement as he reached the bottom of her grocery box. Holding up the packet he smiled warmly.” Did you think things could be so bad I'd actually run out of tea?”

She giggled as he rose and shook his head in mocking disapproval. The distance between them shortened and Buffy felt a mild thrill at the sensation of Giles looking so healthy and happy. Six weeks had been a long time and this outcome was better than she could have dreamed. She allowed herself to consider other improvements as he came closer. But she was to be disappointed again, because whilst his hands did not stray nervously to his pockets, nor did they wrap around her waist or her hair. Instead he somehow managed to negotiate the tight gap in the hallway and get past her to his main living area.

“I really need to get back to my marking,” he declared with no hint of regret or apology.

“Sure,” she replied and masking her confusion, and added practically, “I'll make a start on lunch for us in here.”

***

Surprisingly they ate lunch outside in the courtyard at the wrought-iron table. The sun had been heating the flag stones for a couple of hours and Buffy slipped out of her shoes to enjoy the sensation on her toes. She wondered that he had opted to be seen with her so publicly but then realized the other houses were empty. The curious students would probably have kittens to see them out in the open and have swarmed all over them with questions but that opportunity was lost to them as Giles had no doubt calculated.

“It’s nice out here,” she said dreamily.

“Yes, I’m quite fortunate. The college lets me stay here rent free on the understanding that I act as warden for this part of town,” Giles explained. “If any of the students get into trouble or just need help they know they can find me here.”

This was unexpected detail to Buffy’s ears.

“Wow,” she responded “I had no idea you were so ...” but he interrupted her careful choice of words.

“Trustworthy?” he suggested.

He was possibly teasing her but it felt like a reproach all the same.

“Respectable,” she countered.

He grinned and she caught the rare flash of his teeth in his amusement. He looked good in the sunlight, Buffy had lost sight of that in her world of shadows. She and Giles had always conducted their relationships in darkness but now, even if there was no-one to see, he was at least out in the open with her.

The grin had gone as Giles dropped his head to remove a foil strip of tablets from his pocket, popping one and swallowing with the last of his white wine.

“New prescription from Dr Clarke?” she ventured.

“No, just something herbal.”

“What do they do?”

“Just help me focus. Actually, there is something I should tell you about Dr Clarke, as you pay his bills.”

“The council pays his bills,” she corrected.

“Quite. Anyway. He and I are good. I went to see him after our time in London and we had a very positive session. He's very pleased now that I have my memories of that night back.”

“That's great news.”

Yes. He thinks it's a serious breakthrough and we don't need any more appointments for the time being. So I’m signed off for now. Of course, we've left it that I'm to contact him if I have any further problems, but everything has been fine so I think were done.”

“Really?” Buffy replied slowly. “Because that’s unbelievably good news.”

“Yes, shall I take these plates back inside? I still have more marking, but you are welcome to stay out her as long as you wish.”

***

Buffy sat outside for a further hour, until the sun had moved sufficiently round to begin to cast shadows where she sat. She'd tried reading a book and had finished a second glass of wine but she couldn’t relax. A lot more had happened in six weeks than she had bargained for and the evidence of her eyes was in conflict with the suspicion in her soul. Giles wasn't at his desk or in the kitchen when she re-entered, so she went upstairs to see if he was ok. There was a faint disappointment when she realised the mundane and that he was just in the bathroom. Something inside her wanted to find him in the bedroom and needing her.

Turning at the top of the stairs to retreat she noticed the door to his spare room was ajar. That was very unusual as Giles had been obsessive about keeping that closed, despite the warped wood in the frame. She’d known he'd stored his father’s books and weapons in there when he'd first moved in. Belonging to an old watcher, she'd figured some of the books would be dangerous and could hardly be allowed to go on general sale. The one time she’d previously sneaked a peak she’d seen packing crates up to the rafters and deep up to the door, Giles having no stomach to unpack anything.

Now she pushed the door open further and took a cautious step inside. The crates where gone and room was transformed back to its basic functionality. Her eye flitted across threadbare carpet, faded slightly childish wallpaper and in the centre, a small single bed made up with pale blue linen.

“I wanted to surprise you,” Giles whispered. Suddenly behind her, very close and as she pushed back a little, he reached round and opened the door further.

“I’m sorry.” She blushed at being caught. “Your father's stuff,” she breathed softly. “What happened?”

She felt him shrug. “It seemed stupid to keep them here any longer. I was never going to catalogue them, so no point in hoarding them. It’s time to let go of the past.”

Buffy relaxed. “That's good,” she murmured. Conscious he was near her again, conscious of his aftershave, and his height and his hand on the door that almost wrapped around her.

“So Ethan took them away for me. And now I have a room for guests to sleep in. I hope you like it.”

And with that, he turned back down the stairs and leaving Buffy to stare in disbelief at the single bed and the implication of his words. She narrowed eyes. She didn’t like it one bit.


	12. Something Familiar

**Something Familiar**

It had started as a rather promising night for Ethan. He was in a pub he’d grown familiar with and most importantly, a pub that had grown familiar with him. It wasn’t a rowdy student place in the centre of town, but rather quieter and out of the way, the sort frequented by middle aged women of various marital states, looking for a good time. Ethan had established himself as charming and debonair and above all, safe, for some weeks but then, middle-aged women, as any good predator knows, always hang out in pairs. However, he had that night, brought something of a trump card in his pocket, for Rupert, whether he realised it or not, brought out the maternal side in middle-aged women. The two of them on the town promised to be quite devastating among the pre-menopausal set.

They had immediately attracted a pair of fun loving ladies within an hour of their arrival. Ethan had made an excuse to go to the bar with his date and let nature take its course with Rupert and her friend. He bought a ridiculous blue cocktail and a packet of nuts at the bar, and spouted gallant nonsense in his best seductive tone, conscious of her body already familiarly close to his and her hand, so near to his waist.

And then it happened.

A shriek followed by angry words at the table they had left. Ethan turned in time to see the woman slap Rupert’s face and then throw her drink at him. She angrily gathered her things and Ethan became aware his own date had withdrawn her proximity from him and was rushing to her friend’s side. Bags and coats whipped to shoulders and they were gone, out the pub, slamming into bemused drinkers and out into the night.

Ethan picked up some paper towels from the bar and his bag of nuts and casually sat down next to Rupert who was still dripping gin and vermouth to a small puddle on the table.

“I do hope that was something deliciously salacious you said.”

“I said I wasn’t going to sleep with her.”

Ethan considered his reply. “A tad blunt.”

“It was the truth but she seemed to take it as a challenge. I may have added ‘not even if you were the last woman on Earth’ at that point.”

“That would account for the martini shower-bath, certainly,” Ethan added breezily. Rupert dropped his head.

“I can’t ...not with anyone else.”

“Olivia?”

His friend seemed to take a while to process her name before nodding. Ethan hadn’t thought their relationship to have been particularly deep, but he wasn’t stupid, Olivia’s death and deaths of Giles’ close family had taken a toll on Rupert that he didn’t want the world to see. Ethan was above the world of course, but he seemed to have opened up a fissure of pain and he found himself regretting his foolish attempt to get Rupert laid as a form of therapy.

“Her parents have been trying to trace me,” Rupert added with his eyes fixed firmly on the empty martini glass.

“Probably best to lay low from them. I mean, awful for them, but you can’t give them any more details.”

Rupert rose swiftly. “This was a mistake.”

“Alright.” Ethan stood too. “Where do you want to go?”

“St Peter’s Church.” Rupert was already out of the pub and Ethan had to rush to catch up.

“It’s a little late for services,” he reasoned as they hit the night air.

“I can walk there.” Rupert shrugged. “I’ve done it before.”

“No, get in the car. I’ll drive us.”

\---

Ethan’s night was rapidly due to become morning, but he sat on a bench in the churchyard, his chin propped by his elbow, and waited patiently. They had toured the church and walked the paths in the graveyard silently. He had assumed it to be the church of Olivia’s final resting place but Rupert had made no attempt to acknowledge any single grave. He had simply walked until he they came to a large mausoleum that dominated a small earthwork, and then he’d sat on the bench and studied the skyline.

The hours had passed with Rupert waiting and Ethan waiting on him in turn. It wasn’t the most thrilling night he’d spent in the latter’s company but if he were honest, possibly not the most boring either. A lot of Ethan’s existence required patience. Rupert’s Slayer regarded him as shallow and needing instant gratification, but Ethan had helped that misperception grow and blossom as he did all opinions of himself. After all what right had anyone to judge him, to understand him? He knew the secret to any soul was to know what it truly desires and he wasn’t going to share that with anyone. When someone else gains that knowledge, the soul is exposed and vulnerable and Ethan knew this because he himself had profited by it in the past. What he needed now was to be patient and to understand what Rupert wanted.  And because he had a sentimental streak for the big idiot, Ethan was going to help him get it.

The sky lightened in the East and the trees gained more contrast in the gloom. Ethan yawned and was wondering if this vigil of sorts was going to mean him missing breakfast, when Rupert bolted to his feet.

“Stay behind me,” he said softly. Ethan looked about in confusion until he saw three men coming towards them. They were big and half running towards them, and when they grew close, Ethan could see the tell-tale ridged foreheads and flashing yellow eyes.

“Bloody hell, Ripper,” he gasped.

“Stay behind me,” Rupert barked again as he produced a stake from his pocket and rushed towards the three vampires.

Ethan was no coward but he was not heroically suicidal either. He remained seated and watched the battle unfold. The vampires were surprised by the assault and the first was killed easily but the other two instinctively separated to take their attacker in a pincer movement. There was growling and the crunch of bodies against solid gravestones. Ethan could see the sun was starting to rise and fill the ground with light. The vampires were torn between wanting to finish Rupert off and needing to shelter from the sun’s rays. The indecision gave him time to slip another death hold and stake the taller one in the back and through the heart. His companion chose discretion and made to run towards Ethan but Rupert sprang on him too and there was a third explosion of dust and then all was silent.

Ethan turned his head to appreciate the old mausoleum behind him.  It was an entrance way to underground caves and crypts he presumed, the three vampires had left it rather late to return home before sunrise and that had been their downfall. He took a considered breath as he realised it was not by accident that Rupert had been waiting at this spot.

Stretching indolently from his long hours of vigil, Ethan wandered to where Rupert was coughing up some blood on a lichen stained headstone.

“Didn’t you used to keep a Slayer handy for this sort of thing?” he asked casually.

Rupert grinned up him, his eyes sparkling with adrenaline.

“Never one about when you need one,” he answered, coughing again but his pleasure at killing three vampires was apparent, it radiated from his whole body like a beacon. His happiness was warm and intoxicating, and Ethan revelled in the old familiar feelings it stirred in him too.

“Well, if this is your idea of how to end a perfect evening, Ripper,” he began, offering his hand to his friend, “I’m sure I can help you find even more fun next time.”


	13. We Need to Talk About Rupert

**We Need to Talk About Rupert**

“Honing those Slayer skills, Buff?”

Buffy dropped her rolled up copy of the International Herald Tribune and the two old friends hugged away the three months they’d spent apart until it felt no more than a heartbeat.

“These things come in here to die I swear,” she explained, retrieving her weapon of choice. “The rest of Paris leaves the place to the tourists in the high season, I just get their wasps.” She took an encouraging swing at the insect. “This one totally has a death wish. I probably shouldn’t leave the windows open, but it’s insane in here otherwise. No air-conditioning. That’s what you get with period architecture. ”

“The burdens of high command. Ouch.” Willow ducked as the wasp buzzed by her head. “He hardly seems the suicidal type.” She brushed her fingers through her hair. “I’d say he seems to be perking up for a fight now.” The buzzing stopped. “Wait, where did it go?”

They listened, but all was French traffic and cheap pop music from the streets below.

“Perhaps it took the hint and went outside again?” suggested Willow.

“Oh no,” Buffy said with a long history of such engagements. “That type always comes back. Anyway, how’s Rome and what brings you here?”

Willow continued to eye the room suspiciously as she spoke. “Rome is eternal, as always.” She smiled. “And I’m here because Ryan Appleby called me in. He wanted some magickal help in tracking down some kids that were causing some trouble. Raising demons and stuff. Your typical teenage thrills.”

“I'm surprised he's interested in such small stuff, or that he needed you.”

“They have some power apparently. Not like they want to end the world or anything, but Ryan wants to stop it before it gets out of hand. So I helped get a location fix and his team is going to deal with it and catch them in the act.”

Buffy dropped the paper again and gestured to her chairs. “Cool. I knew he was out somewhere today. He didn’t say where.”

“I guess he didn't want to bother you. Although I gather you have been seeing quite a lot of him.” Buffy registered that here was something in the tone of her friend’s voice in the last sentence but before she could react Willow continued, “Can we go somewhere else? I’m expecting your waspy friend to come back any minute.”

***

They sank into a couple of worn wicker seats at a pavement café that had good views down from Montmartre and across the city. The heat made the tops of the buildings hazy. It was Buffy’s favourite spot to escape to from the office.

“So,” Willow began, with a gleam in her eye that Buffy recognised fondly. “Tell me all about Ryan.”

She rolled her eyes to add admonishment to her reply. “And we are so failing the Bechdel test.”

Willow was not to be distracted. “Pft. We saved the world yesterday. I haven’t seen you in months and I happen to know you spend a lot of your free time in England, so spill. He took you to that ball in London a couple of months back-“

Buffy involuntarily muttered “- oh that was a weird night-”

“-And you haven’t said a thing about it to anyone,” Willow concluded. “Why weird?” she added, demonstrating she still missed nothing.

Buffy felt the need to be cautious. “Has Ryan said anything to you about what happened that night?”

Willow grinned. “No. I was assuming a gentleman never tells.”

She could leave it like that. Let everyone think her time in England was about Ryan. It was the obvious conclusion to jump to but Willow, she knew, was only interested because she cared about Buffy’s happiness. And it wouldn’t be fair on Ryan so she abandoned the tempting path of complete deception.

“It’s not like that. He’s a colleague and a friend that’s all.”

“Oh,” Willow was momentarily disappointed. “Something actually happened that night though?” she asked shrewdly before frowning. “Something weird?”

Buffy tried to sound as neutral as possible. “We ran into Giles.”

Her friend’s surprise and excitement was interrupted by the middle-aged waiter bringing their café glacés. There was a good deal of fussing about the table and Buffy made a little small talk in French with the man whose flinty French heart was perceptibly starting to melt at the frequency of her visits and under her determined assault to make friends. It was some minutes before he withdrew and Willow was able to finally hiss, “Giles was there? Why didn’t you say sooner? How’s he doing?”

Buffy stirred her ice. “He got into a fight with a couple of Ryan's men in the parking lot. We straightened it out. It wasn’t entirely his fault, he’d actually dusted a vamp and they’d misunderstood and jumped him.” She sipped her clinking drink. “I’m sorry. I suppose I should have told you sooner.”

Willow stared at her, processing the details she’d been given and no doubt inventing a good deal of supporting narrative. “No, I understand,” she said finally. “Actually Buffy,” and she shifted a little uncomfortably in her seat. “I have a confession to make as well. Now don't get all upset with me, but I've been seeing Giles.”

“Wow.”

There wasn’t much more she could say but wow. Buffy spent a fraction of a second supplying her own narrative to Willow’s confession, a narrative that painted Giles as some sort of lothario, bedding all the Scoobies secretly on some sort of schedule. It was so absurd she wanted to laugh but then an image of Giles crying in a London alley came to her, and she felt guilty at her own frivolous thoughts.

Willow continued. “I know he was pretty clear he didn't want anyone to contact him, but I had to see if he was doing OK and it's been over a year now.” Buffy waited. “So I’ve been looking in from time to time. He doesn't know I'm there, of course. I stay out of his way.”

“Ah.” Buffy understood and relaxed a little.

“I just talk to people, his neighbours, students, his colleagues.”

“You’ve been spying on him.” Buffy’s words came out a littler harsher than she intended and she regretted the lapse.

“It's Giles,” Willow said, quickly replacing any hurt with a flash of determination. “I don’t like this letting him be alone thing. It’s not doing him any good.”

It possibly wasn’t, but Giles was so hostile towards any mention of his old life and friends, Buffy had accepted his self-imposed exile as being outside her control. “So how’s he doing?” she asked as an avenue to divert the conversation.

Willow shook her head sadly. “There’s a heap of concern at the University,” she said. “He's missing lectures, which is pretty noticeable when you're the one supposed to be giving them. They run a summer school and charge a lot of money, so it’s a bad thing. The Master of the college has given him a couple of warnings.”

“Really? I thought that was going better. He was grading papers like a pro.”

“Not so much. And there is a mysterious woman. No-one knows her name but she just shows up occasionally and then stays over. They never go out, they just stay in the house when she's there. All the time.”

Buffy was sure her face must be telling Willow everything except her friend hadn’t seemed to notice her reaction. She just continued her somewhat embarrassing summary of Giles’ new love life.

“And, apparently he’s had a lot of little accidents in the last couple of months, cuts and bruises that he won't talk about. Gets angry real quick if anyone makes a joke about his girlfriend.” Willow sucked in her breath and looked directly at Buffy. “What if this mystery woman is actually hurting him? Not in a kinky way but in a …well, no actually a kinky way would be bad… but she might be evil.”

“She’s not evil. Or kinky.”

“She must be! My informants say she’s blonde, very self-assured, very – Oh.” The penny dropped and Willow blushed to a colour to match Buffy’s. “There’s a spare bedroom, of course,” she added hurriedly.

Buffy recognised she had another choice in that moment. Not to be categorised as an evil possibly kinky pleasure seeker was a good thing, but did she want to encourage Willow to believe she slept in Giles’ spare bedroom? Neither of those things were true but reality was complicated. She’d never had to lie to her friends about Giles because no-one had ever come close to understanding the new place their relationship had gone, and that hadn’t been a problem. Ryan had probably guessed, no she was deceiving herself, Ryan totally knew, but was being discrete about it. Now she had to decide how much she could share with Willow, but she was hesitant. It wasn’t sordid, but it wasn’t something she felt particularly proud of herself for doing. It was never going to be white picket fences for her and Giles.

Buffy shrugged and gave no response and Willow went quiet on the subject, so they sat and drank their iced teas and watched the city haze for an hour.

***

When they eventually moved on, Buffy took them back towards the river and impulsively took a boat, already filled with tourists anticipating a splendidly romantic cruise on the river Seine. The advertising boards promised many important photo opportunities of buildings and bridges that most of the passengers hadn’t known existed until their guide explained their importance in three languages. For good measure, families of ducks were also snapped up eagerly. Buffy and Willow sat hemmed in at the back while cameras flashed in all directions at anything that looked even remotely like a picture postcard.

“How come you're allowed to see him and we’re not?” Buffy had known that would rankle and when she didn’t answer at first, Willow persisted, “How come his rules don’t apply to you?”

“He's starting to remember what happened,” she replied stonily, looking straight ahead.

“Oh.” Willow thought for a moment. “That's good isn't it?”

Buffy gave sharp laugh. “Honestly? I don't know. When he didn’t know and wouldn’t accept what we told him, he was drinking a lot. But he seems to have cut that out which is good. But now that he remembers it really was his dad, it’s like he’s trying to forget it all again. I know for a fact he's stopped seeing his therapist for the past couple of months. And he’s lying about it too. He’s lying about a lot of things.” Buffy turned her face to her friend. “Did your informants say anything about anyone else hanging around?”

“No, why?”

“Because I know Ethan is sniffing around.” Willow gave a sharp intake of breath at that. “Lending him a car,” Buffy continued, “And being very well behaved and drinking with him and certainly not doing magick… but generally acting like he has more right to Giles than I have.” She corrected herself, “Than we have.”

“That can't be good. Buffy, if Ethan gets a hold on him, there's no telling what can happen.”

The guide on the boat announced something of importance behind them and the passengers dutifully turned and starting firing cameras over Willow and Buffy’s shoulders. Buffy waited till the excitement diverted towards the Eiffel Tower.

“Oh Ethan is playing nice, for now,” she admitted. “I can hardly have him arrested for being Giles' bestest bud.”

“But if Giles is picking up injuries?”

“Ethan might not be the problem anyway.”

“But the cuts and bruises…”

Buffy shook her head. “I’m pretty sure Giles is sneaking off on his own and hunting vampires. He flat out denied it when I asked him, but I recognise the signs.”

They stared at the landmark site of Paris until Willow spoke again. “It makes sense he’d want to do that. When I lost Tara, I focused my anger on Warren and the world. And although it might not have been entirely without a downside, it worked for me. Anger can get you through a lot of battles. I guess Giles doesn't have anyone to be angry at.”

“Only himself,” Buffy acknowledged. Willow understood that part as well as she did. “It’s just,” she began, “it’s like he’s still trying to cut me out. I offered to go hunting with him but he just laughed and said it would be no fun knowing I’d always get the last one.” The words started to tumble out of her. “There was something about the way he laughed. He’s looking for something and he doesn’t want my protection, he doesn’t want a safety net.” Willow was looking at her intensely now but Buffy knew she had to avoid eye-contact or she’d never get through what she was saying. “I don’t think he’s going to stop until he finds something bigger than himself.” She directed a bitter little laugh to the boat in general. “Because I recognise those signs too.”

Her friend nodded and said almost matter-of-factly, “We’re going to lose him aren’t we?” It was the simple summation that proved too much for Buffy. She looked at Willow and saw she wasn’t being callus or calculating, she was actually looking back at her with worried concern. “Buffy, you’re crying?” Willow’s hand reached for her cheek and she happily leaned into the simple offer of comfort.

“It’s stupid,” Buffy said, her throat constricting awkwardly with the unexpectedness of overwhelming emotion. “He’s being stupid and I can’t fix him.”

“Shh, Buffy. It’s OK. Sometimes we can’t be the ones that help. Maybe he needs something else in his life. Maybe he needs to hit rock bottom and we just can’t provide a net big enough to stop him.”

“I can’t let him do that,” Buffy retorted angrily. “I won’t. I will not be pushed out into his spare bedroom and then out of his life.”

“Excuse me?”

Buffy pulled her head up, stuck out her chin and said resolutely, “There’s something else you should know about me and Giles.”


	14. Public Displays of Affection

**Public Displays of Affection**

Sir Stuart and Lady Sophie’s garden parties were rightly the stuff of horticultural and catering legend. For the past ten years, as summer began to fade, their parties had become the fashionable precursor to the next academic year. As staff returned from vacation and research projects, they were welcomed back to enjoy the college Master’s immaculate lawns and flower beds, along with Lady Sophie’s latest reclamation project of the wilderness that was the surrounding six acres.  She had wisely left the large trees that bordered the ground untouched - wisely because their shadows cast outwards from the garden and their size seemed to help capture a microclimate of pleasing warmth and humidity. The food on offer at such functions was excellent too and even though Buffy and Giles had arrived a little late for the formal lunch, there were still plenty of hot and cold tray options to tempt them. Buffy’s face had certainly lit up at the prospect even if Giles had merely shrugged his indifference and continued to cast a watchful look around the other guests.

Quite a few eyes had followed their entrance as Giles had guided her arm confidently towards the buffet trollies. There was a buzz and chatter to the conversations that Buffy didn’t need Slayer hearing to pick up on. She took a plate and fork eagerly. The barbeque ribs looked excellent, but Buffy chose sartorial caution in the form of an unfussy salad and quiche. Giles had told her to pack her best summer dress and though she hadn't really expected he'd actually go through with it and display the two of them in public as a couple, she'd yielded to temptation and bought a simple yet elegant silk print from a little shop in Paris. With killer shoes and a clutch purse she looked frankly fabulous and didn’t want food stains to spoil the effect.

She'd tried to strike a positive message of ‘you need to take me somewhere in this dress’. Though the way Giles had cleared his throat for the five minutes and ducked to the kitchen for a glass of water, she realised the message she was giving him was getting conflicted and possibly not at all conducive to her aim to get him out of the house. That wouldn't have been too bad a thing actually as she hated being billeted in the spare single bed and the lack of contact was frustrating. But just as she was warming to the possibilities of staying in, Giles' throat clearing trick had evidently paid off because he'd returned with his keys and swiftly headed out to collect the car from its secure parking lot.

She leant forward to reach the potato salad, conscious he was watching the way her dress glided to match her movements. They both knew they were the topic of a dozen hushed conversations around them yet Giles smiled at her with a great deal of desire. She opted to tease him in return.

“Aren't you eating, Giles?”

He picked up an empty plate and moved very close to her side, brushing the silk at her hips with the side of his hand.

“What do you recommend I try?”

There was absolutely no good answer to that that wasn't going to end in difficult to remove grass stains, but Buffy was saved by the approach of their host and hostess.

“Ah Rupert and Buffy,” Lady Sophie beamed. “So pleased you could come.”

Giles snorted and Buffy elbowed him in the ribs before he could say anything inappropriate.

Their hosts were older than Giles and of that thin distinguished stock that was bred for both brains and longevity. She’d been ‘something in the city’, he had pursued an interest in Chemistry that had found him a knighthood, some patent royalties and a happy return to academia and there were children and small grandchildren, all of whom sat a horse well.

“Ah, Giles. Just the man I wanted to see”, Sir Stuart began. “And er…?”

“Buffy.”  His wife prompted. “You remember, dear? We met at the Chancellery Ball in London.”

The Master seemed surprised and scrutinised his young guest keenly.

“I was wearing a pale blue gown and half a garbage truck,” Buffy added as a helpful reminder.

“Yes,” he finally agreed and beamed. “And Giles here was wearing the other half. Yes, you made a lasting impression on a good many people that night, my dear.” He reached for her hand and smiled warmly. “Yes.” He looked at Giles and back to Buffy. “You explain rather a lot.”

“Down, tiger,” his wife interjected in amusement. “We are _both_ delighted you could come today. We don’t see nearly enough of Rupert.”

“It’s great to be here. You have a beautiful home,” Buffy said politely.

“Anyway, Giles, as you are here,” Sir Stuart switched his entire focus away from Buffy with admirable speed. “Do you have your key for the Preceptor's rooms with you? Can I have it please?” Giles dug in his pocket and separated a key from his ring. “Ah good. One less to worry about.” The Master took it from him and pocketed it himself. “The locks are being changed. We had a break-in last night,” he explained. “ Well, they used one of the keys but it still counts as a break-in. Junior Undergraduates I daresay. They built a contraption of sheets and books and some sort of pulley system to frighten the first member of staff in the door.”

Buffy asked, “Did it work?”

Sir Stuart looked at her with playful seriousness. “Dr Foster is made of sterner stuff, I assure you.  Though he wasn’t amused. In fact now he’s got a bee in his bonnet that one of the books from the German collection we keep locked at the back is missing too.” He produced his glasses and a slip of paper and read the rather long name out loud. “Sounds quite the page turner doesn’t it?”

“Is it valuable?” asked Lady Sophie.

He considered his answer for a moment. “Not commercially. Foster says it’s the only one of its kind apparently. I personally doubt it's a rollicking read for anyone with a name like that. He’s doing a full inventory but this is the only one he's missed so far.”

Buffy joined the questioning. “And it was definitely taken last night?”

“Oh, who can say. Foster was in there yesterday, but he can’t remember if the book was there or not. No-one else has probably ever noticed the thing exists.”

“Enterprising undergraduates,” Giles said and grunted. “I expect we'll get a ransom demand for a couple of quid to go to Student Welfare fund. It sounds like a stunt of that sort. Harmless.”

“Yes, most likely,” Sir Stuart concurred. “Annoying all the same. Well I need to gather up keys. See if anyone has lost theirs or lent it out.” Their hosts made to move away and mingle, but the Master turned at the last minute. “I don't suppose _you_ were out and about last night were you, Giles?”

Buffy thought he used an odd tone in his question and he had a rather piecing look that probably frightened miscreant students into full confessions.

“Sorry no.” Giles put his hand round Buffy's waist affectionately. “We stayed in didn't we, Buffy?”

She smiled and nodded. It was true in the sense that neither of them had left the house though mostly she’d been frustrated as they’d watched TV in silence.

“Pity. You might have seen something if you were out late near the college.” Sir Stuart took Buffy’s hand briefly for a farewell and headed for a group of colleagues near the box hedging.

Giles own hand left Buffy’s waist as soon as the older couple turned their backs. His focus shifted to the pastries and sandwiches from the buffet trolley and he began to add them to his plate with business-like efficiency. By contrast, Buffy had lost her appetite.

“Should we be worried about this book?” she asked. “I could get Willow to work the mojo and track it down for them.”

Giles took a fistful of green salad. “Oh do leave it. It's not important.”

Buffy whispered, “But what if there’s something special about this book? What's it about?”

“I don't know,” he said firmly. “Much as I hate to spoil your image of me, there are quite a lot of books in the world of which I have no knowledge. This one will turn up innocently.”

“And you call yourself a Watcher.” It was a mistake. She’d said it playfully and without thinking but his slammed plate told her she’d overstepped a mark.

“Not anymore. Not now.”  He threw his fork down and it clattered noisily. “Not everything concerns you and your need to make dusty friends with the undead, Buffy, so drop it.” And he stalked off angrily back to the house, leaving Buffy by the food trollies and the sole centre of wagging tongues.

Damn, she thought. It was a sudden and harsh response to an innocent joke, but she didn’t like seeing him that way. With grim humour she recognised she stood zero chance of sleeping anywhere other than that hateful single bed, knock out Parisian dress or not. But that was not the point, she told herself. That was not why she visited him. She was supposed to be helping him adjust not triggering his anger with painful reminders.

“Is everything alright?”

Buffy looked up and into the concerned eyes of Lady Sophie.

“Yes, I just can’t decide what to eat,” she lied but her hostess made no attempt to indulge her in it.

“He probably just needs to get away for a while. It’s been an upheaval for him.” She put a supporting hand on Buffy’s arm. “Why don’t you take him somewhere nice and relaxing for the week?”

Buffy appreciated the kind words and gesture but the suggestion was hardly practical.

“I can’t. Term is starting,” she explained.

“Yes you can. Stuart has just granted his leave of absence request.”

“His leave of absence request?”

“Yes, Stuart has been sitting on it for a few weeks but has agreed now after meeting you. It seems you are a good influence on our Rupert.” Lady Sophie looked at Buffy’s blank face and hastily realised her mistake. “Oh, maybe that was supposed to be a surprise? I’m so sorry. Rupert hasn't said anything about it has he?”

“No.” Buffy managed a steely smile. “No. I guess he just wants to keep surprising me.”


	15. Deceptions and Delusions

**Deceptions and Delusions**

Not only did his timing suck, but the very fact that Captain Ryan Appleby had called Willow and not herself irked Buffy to no small degree. She was accustomed to the NATO officer requesting her help as his first port of call but, but as her friend spoke in hushed, guarded tones, she found her own phone had no missed calls, and it rankled somewhat.

“I’ll need computer access.” Willow was saying and broke off to ask, “Buffy, can we go to your apartment?”

Buffy hailed a cab - no mean feat from the banks of the Seine at that time of the evening - and they were back at her place in less than ten minutes. Willow slipped off her coat and was behind Buffy’s computer desk in one fluid movement, all the while she spoke into her cell that had remained cradled between shoulder and ear ever since she’d first taken the call.

“OK, I’m online. Damn, these kids are good, Ryan. They’ve masked themselves somehow.”

Buffy shut her front door, switched the lights and stooped to pick up her friend’s coat to hang it on the door hook properly. “Does he need my help?” she asked but Willow merely shook her head as she worked the keyboard professionally. Still chaffing slightly, Buffy squeezed past her weapons chest that doubled as a coffee table and opened her balcony windows. The night air was still warm as she inspected her summer planters by the black iron railings, clipping here, watering there and listening to the yappy dog in the next apartment demanding its supper. Her elderly neighbour indulged that animal far too much.

“That would be awesome,” Willow continued speaking. “If you can find that out, that would be a big help. I’ll hold….OK…Call me back then.” The typing stopped abruptly and Willow flipped the phone shut and sat back in her chair. “He’s calling me back,” she explained and then added. “Sorry about this.”

Buffy smiled with the sort of long-suffering understanding that she’d seen plenty of people bestow on her, closed her windows and sat nervously on the arm of her couch facing her friend.

“So, um. Me and Giles. You didn’t get a chance to say much.”

“Sorry. It’s a lot to take in. You kinda caught me by surprise. I never imagined that you and Giles…that you and Giles…” Willow trailed off, and waved a hand to cover her embarrassment at not wanting to put a verb in her sentence.

“Have been having sex,” Buffy filled in.

“Yeah. That. That’s a lot to take in,” she repeated. “I mean, wow, I sure didn’t see that one coming. Um, I need better words. I mean, at least with Spike there was an obvious attraction and flirting and he was in love with you. Your relationship with Spike came as a surprise, and it may not have been your best decision in the circumstances, but at least there was some history between the two of you.”

“Giles and I have history,” Buffy began, but Willow cut her off sharply.

“Not flirting history,” she declared solemnly and Buffy conceded the point. “So, it is a casual thing then? Like with Spike?”

“No, god, no.” Buffy’s mind filled with comparative memories. With Spike she had embarked on the wild and the whacky, constantly pushing for more but with Giles everything just seemed to click first time. She had chased the tide with Spike, constantly pursuing the impossible to allow herself to feel, and yet every time, satisfaction had slipped further and further away. She was about to express this when it occurred to her that possibly her excesses with Spike weren’t something Willow knew about. Or for that matter would ever want to know about and she didn’t feel comfortable trying to explain the immediate pleasure and joy she experienced every time with Giles.

“It’s very different. I’m not taking advantage of Giles in his vulnerable state if that’s what you think.”

“I didn’t think you were, but are you sure you know what you're doing? He was badly hurt by that vampire - physically and emotionally – is it wise to start a relationship with him? I know that sounds harsh, but you have to think of yourself too, Buffy.  I know it’s Giles and we all feel sorry for him, but you shouldn’t do anything out of pity.”

“It isn’t pity. It’s more,” Buffy swallowed her awkwardness; she’d known she’d have to explain this to someone one day. “It’s more like he’s back together guy when he’s with me. It’s like things are back to normal and the horrors of losing his family and Olivia don’t get in the way of stuff.”

Willow leaned forward and took Buffy’s hands.

“Buffy, I’m your best friend and I will always love you and support you, but I'm not sure Giles having sex with you is really an alternative to proper psychiatric help.”

Buffy rolled her eyes. “Hey, it’s not that cynical a deal. Besides, he won’t see a therapist”.

“Can't you make him?”

“Physically drag him there and make him keep appointments? You sound like Ryan.” Willow’s eyes invited more from her. “Ryan thinks Giles is going to do something apocalyptically stupid someday. He says he’s bottling things up.”

“Maybe he is,” her friend replied carefully but Buffy was ready for that.

“I’ve told Ryan what I’m telling you: he won’t do anything stupid,” she argued. “He’s too sensible. He’s too Giles. He would never do anything that would hurt anyone else.”

“But we know he’s angry and is getting into fights with vampires…”

“And winning them,” Buffy interjected, brushing past what, even she knew, was a lame argument. “You don't know what's going on with Giles.”

“Only because you are keeping him from us.”

“I’m not.”

Willow raised a conciliatory hand and continued, “Ok, he's keeping himself from us, but you are enforcing it. You're his human shield.” Her friend broke off and blushed. “And I _so_ need to stop picturing the two of you together because it's messing with my reasoned arguments. Damn. What I mean is: you said you weren’t taking advantage of him, but is he using you? Think about it, please. He wants to be alone so you make us all back off, he doesn't want to see his doctor, so you say we have to give him time. I think he's hiding behind you, Buffy, regardless of the sex.”

“I’m helping him,” Buffy insisted. “I know what he's feeling, how lost he is inside himself, because it’s how I felt when you first brought me back. It’s beyond grief, it’s beyond everything. Honestly, I know what I’m doing with Giles, what is best for him, and you’ll just have to trust me.”

“Ok and I do. But with hindsight, Buffy, when we brought you back, we probably should have gotten you some psychiatric help. Might have spared us the part where you nearly killed us all in the basement.”

“Hey!” Buffy exclaimed. “That wasn't my fault. That was the demon.”

They smiled and Buffy rose to the windows and pulled the curtains. “As long as I can keep him safe, then Giles will work through this thing and come back to us. We just need to give him time and not rush anything. We just need to be patient with him.”

“And have sex with him?” Willow added mischievously.

Buffy couldn’t resist embracing the light relief and suggested, “Maybe not all of us on that last part.” Then she thought of the awkwardness of her last visit and two nights spent in Giles’ spare room. “Actually, maybe not any of us on that last part. He’s trying to end that side of things between us.”

Willow grinned ruefully. “So this bombshell you drop on me is all past tense?”

“I’m not sure he’s right in trying to end it.”

Her reply was met with a mildly censorious look. “No, means no, Buffy.”

She thought back to the intensity of the last thirty minutes of her visit. She remembered her bag packed and waiting by the front door, the carpet beneath her shoulder blades and the proximity of the table leg to her head, how the frustration of two nights apart, yet under the same roof, hadn’t all been one sided.

“He hasn’t actually gotten to ‘no’ yet. That’s still a work in progress for him.”

Willow’s cell rang and spared Buffy further explanation. She glanced at the phone and smiled for her friend to take the call. Ryan’s quest for the teenage hell raisers was on high alert again, so she rose to put the kettle on for them both. It looked like they had a long night ahead of them. She did understand what Giles was going through. What he was feeling. Even if sometimes, she wished to god to know she knew what he was thinking.

“Do you have the title? Yes, if it’s unique enough I can track that book. Title me... Wow. That’s a snappy best seller, give me a sec.” Willow keyed in what sounded like the longest named volume in publishing history. “Got it! There’s only one copy in England at the moment. I’ll work on a locator spell, hang on. Oh, I’ve found a reference catalogue of what it is… It seems to be a book on European heresy written in the fourteen century from the standpoint of yay! Go heresy!...Author excommunicated quite literally for his sins…Pretty boring from our point of view. Oh hello!  It’s got a chapter on summoning and I don't think it means the Faithful for services.” Buffy smiled at Willow’s joke. “Summoning the dead. Specifically vampires, oh, specifically lots of vampires. That's not good is it? Norfolk, England. I've got a fix and your team isn't too far away. OK, OK, I’m sending co-ordinates to you now. Damn, Ryan, these kids must be nuts wanting to summon a lot of vampires….What do you mean?... You told me they were just kids…so who then? Ryan?”

Willow found herself cut off and frowned at Ryan’s rudeness but Buffy was already frantically snatching their coats.


	16. Saying Goodbye

**Saying Goodbye**

They lay entangled together on the floor, momentarily free from the world with its lies and its horrors, their explosion of passion spent.  They both softened to regulate their breathing and smell the intimacy of each other’s sweat. It was Giles who inevitably spoke first - "Are you going to miss your train?" - but the question was somewhat academic. Buffy had, after all, been within thirty seconds of departing his house. She'd only dropped her bag (briefly), by the door to check her phone calendar for her next visit, so, yes; her intended train was well and truly missed.

“They're every hour. I'll get the next one.”

Giles rolled away on his back and began to straighten his clothing. Buffy pulled at her own clothes, conscious for the first time of how thin the carpet was and how gritty her hair had become, and also how close to the table legs and an ensnaring telephone cable they had gotten. Funny, to think they had always made love in the bedroom before, and yet, this time they had come so close to calamity. She crawled impishly on his chest and began to play with the top button of his shirt that had come undone, frowning as she saw the fringe of some ugly bruising he’d been hiding. It was purple and black but as she made to pull back his shirt and reveal more, Giles’ hands moved swiftly and grabbed her wrists.

“But, you're hurt,” she began.

“Don't. It's nothing, leave it.”

She sat up sharply, wondering what other injuries he was hiding from her, and bored her eyes into his.

“Giles, was this a vampire?”

“No.” His countenance didn't waver for a second. “Of course not.” Then he broke into a grin. “If you must know I walked into a filing cabinet. It's embarrassing more than anything else.”

He didn't look embarrassed though, if anything, he looked rather pleased with himself as he let go of her wrists and settled his hands comfortably beneath his head, his elbows spread. Buffy trailed a fingernail gently across the small patch of exposed chest hair and then across his shirt to his shoulder. She thought she detected a row of neat stitches under her touch but he didn’t flinch or drop his lazy gaze.

“Looks like it put up a fight,” she said at last and was rewarded by the side of his mouth curling in amusement.

“Perhaps, but it's all done and dusted now.” They held each other's stare for a long time before he added softly, “Don't fuss. Don’t spoil this.”

They didn’t have much time left together so she relented and lay back down on him, her head on his other shoulder as Giles gently swept her hair from her eyes and his mouth as she settled comfortably.

“When were you thinking of surprising me?” she asked in a small voice.

His ribs rumbled with a dark giggle. “I thought I'd just surprised the both of us.”

“No.” Buffy kept her head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat. “You have a leave of absence from the college next week. I know because Lady Sophie told me. She seemed to think you'd asked for it so you could take me away some place romantic. As a surprise.”

He sighed. “She must have misunderstood. I have no such plans.”

“But you do have a leave of absence?” she pressed. “You are going away next week?”

“Yes.”

“So is this an Ethan trip?”

The giggling returned. “Only if he buys me flowers.” Buffy scrunched his shirt in mild annoyance at his evasion, catching some chest hairs. “Ow. I'm kidding, I'm kidding. I'm just looking up some old friends. It's nothing sordid.” She let go, and smoothed her hand over the creases she'd made.

“What's so important you need time off work?”

“There are people I want to see who aren't available any other time. It's timing really, making sure our diaries match.”

She looked up at his throat and the side of his head. His eyes wore more battle lines than she remembered, for all his playfulness he looked tired.

“I might have been able to come had you asked,” she suggested.

“I knew you'd be busy with your work. After all, our time together is carefully allocated in your phone calendar, so I wouldn't presume to impose on you.” Buffy resented the suggestion she pigeonholed him but before she could defend herself, Giles wrapped his arms around her tightly and whispered, “You can't stop saving the world on my account.” His words, though soft, seemed resentful but in the sudden warmth of his embrace, Buffy was lost to the idea that maybe she just could.

They lay for a further ten minutes, perhaps both aware of the impoliteness of checking their watches, until Giles said, “You’ll miss another train.” and signalled the end of their time together. Buffy slipped upstairs and used his bathroom. Daylight was starting to fade and she was conscious of the loss of summer with its long and comfortingly warm days. England had always seemed a degree or two cooler than Paris, but as the season was changing, she’d noticed the difference more this trip and would need to pack warmer clothes for next time. She padded down the stairs but pulled up silently at the sight of Giles standing forlornly by his mantelpiece. His shirt was hanging loose and his shoulders stooped and he seemed to be morosely regarding himself in the mirror that hung over the fireplace. He looked grey and pallid without summer sunlight streaming in through his windows and for a moment he looked as lost as he’d ever been. Giles had displayed puzzling behaviour the last few days, but he had seemed to have more confidence in his overall demeanour. At times he’d been almost cocky and carefree, so it was a shock to see such a regression. She wanted him to be happier with himself. She wanted to help him be himself again.

Buffy took a further step and perhaps he caught a glimpse of the movement in the mirror because he immediately straightened, pushed his shirt back in his pants and ran his fingers through his hair by way of a comb. Buffy retrieved her own hairbrush and stood by the mirror also, brushing furiously to bring her hair back to shape, conscious Giles had folded his arms but was watching her nevertheless. Their stolen hour was almost up and she wondered if he was sharing the same sense of melancholy that she felt. She drifted slightly closer to him but he shrank away to pour himself a whisky, then grinned as he toasted her silently and sipped it, challenging her to object to his habit. But he was back to looking almost insufferably pleased with himself and as it was the first scotch she’d seen him take all visit, she let it slide.

“You are being careful aren't you?” she asked, thinking back to the discovery of his injuries.

“Haven’t spilled a drop,” he beamed and shook the glass jovially.

“No, I mean, in general, when you go out?”

“Buffy, I slipped and fell into a filing cabinet and caught my shoulder on it. But if it helps, I promise I'll be far more wary of static office furniture in future.” He was playful and joking, and whilst it was a side of him she’d almost forgotten existed, the mood swings disturbed her. She knew it was contrary of her to feel disquieted by his happiness, it was, after all, what she'd always wanted for him, but something felt different this time, something had changed between them somehow.

She boldly took the glass from his hand and swallowed what was left.

“Maybe I should help you with your filing?” she said, pushing the glass back on the counter. Giles folded his arms and looked down at her with a challenging gleam.

“That wouldn't be nearly as much fun as you'd think,” he said. “I know you: you'd always want to file that last one.”

Buffy met his gaze for a while but he offered no further explanation. The hairs on the back of her neck that tended to only warn of danger of vampires were bolt upright, but there was no apparent threat that evening, just a vague sense that they were at some sort of turning point. Buffy turned to the door and gathered up her bag.

“So three weeks from Thursday?” she asked.

“We did that part already.” He was smiling warmly again and Buffy flushed too, remembering how it seemed to be the talk of planning their next meeting that had triggered something: a passion sparked from parting and finality, a reluctance to say goodbye. He'd surprised her certainly, but then, perhaps, she'd surprised him with the enthusiasm of her own response.

“Yes.”  She grinned and taunted, “You can tell me all about your mysterious vacation when I see you next.”

“It's more a sort of mini break,” he deadpanned, teasing her again so her only response was to narrow her eyes and play her part.

“Whatever. Where is it you're going exactly?”

“Norfolk. It's in East England.”

“You will be safe, won't you?”

“It is the most boring county in England. How could I not be?”

As had become custom, they hugged their farewells before she opened the door eliminating the opportunity for his student neighbours to goggle. She pulled him tightly to her, fearful for a moment to let go and was rewarded when it seemed Giles, too, had no desire to disengage. His hand brushed her hand and his lips grazed her ear.

“You stay safe, Buffy. You keep on saving the world for me.”

And then his touch was gone, his hands were in his pockets, his eyes anywhere but hers. He made no further move when she opened the door, so Buffy left to begin her walk to the train station, never looking back.


	17. The Bell Invites Me

**The Bell Invites Me**

Buffy followed Captain Ryan Appleby and Willow through long hospital corridors and up three flights of stairs. She had lost all track of time except she knew it was dark outside and presumably well beyond midnight. They walked on through double doors until she recognised two of Appleby’s men standing guard to a room on her right, the Family Support Room, which had been commandeered by the army for the purposes of their meeting. Appleby pushed through first, his training to assess potential threats superseding his natural good manners, and Buffy and Willow followed. The room was surprisingly big, stuffed with banks of sofas and comfortable chairs clustered in groups, and with four large black windows bouncing back the strip lighting and their own reflections. There were only two occupants, Giles, without his glasses and squeezed in the corner of a sofa, an oblong coffee table up to his knees, and a red capped soldier who was standing to attention in front of the windows. Appleby addressed the latter:

“Get yourself a cup of tea.”

And they waited awkwardly as the young man left the room. Buffy felt nervous about sitting down, and Giles, who was eyeing his visitors warily, had not risen in greeting.

Ryan spoke again and with surprisingly solicitude. “How do you feel, Dr Giles?”

“Like someone who has been tasered to a humiliating pile of drool on the floor.” Came the slightly cranky reply.

“You tasered him?” Willow was appalled. “Oh, Giles.” She pushed through the gap in the furniture and hugged him till he responded back. Ryan Appleby took a seat on the sofa that flanked Giles and Willow’s and Buffy made up the four next to him. There was ridiculously little leg room with the oversized coffee table between them though Willow dealt with the situation by hooking her legs under her and facing Giles. “You tasered him?” she repeated.

Ryan answered her but maintained eye contact with Giles, “We did ask you to stop what you were doing.”

“Are you ok?” Willow looked like she was going to hug him again but Giles shifted his position subtly to deflect her.

“I'm fine, really,” he said. “It's OK. Possibly a bit unsteady when I first stand up, but fine really.”

“So what the heck where you trying to do?” Willow chided gently.

Buffy watched Giles merely shrug and gesture for Ryan to provide the exposition.

“Your locator spell, Willow, led us to a pretty isolated spot,” the soldier began and Giles narrowed his eyes briefly at the implied betrayal. “There was just a large barn in the middle of several fields, no other building for miles.”

“I didn’t know it was Giles I was tracking,” Willow intervened to defend herself. “Why there?”

Giles answered, “It was away from people and I wanted the natural ley lines.”

“To increase the intensity of the summoning spell?” guessed Willow with keen interest and Buffy recognised the familiar signs of her friend trying to get back in Giles’ good books. It was a bit like watching something on TV, like she wasn’t really there. Giles had certainly not looked at her once.

Ryan snorted good-naturedly. “Well whatever it was it certainly worked. By the time we got there, there were scores of vampires descending on the place, every single one mightily racked off at their enforced party invitations and looking for something to kill. We were fighting hand to hand for twenty minutes before we could get through to the barn itself.”

“I didn't ask for backup,” Giles said softly.

“I will note that in my report.” Ryan spoke dryly but without malice. “Anyway, when we got in and persuaded Dr Giles here, to put down the book and stop chanting, which did at least free the rest of the vampires to run off again, that’s when we discovered the other part of the plan and had to cordon off the area and call the bomb squad.”

Giles displayed a flicker of a smile. “I'm not completely stupid. I wasn't looking to throw a square dance in there.”

Ryan resumed his summary of events. “We found explosives piled right up to the rafters, the whole place was rigged to blow and probably take out half the county. I've got MI5 and the anti-terrorist branch on my case wanting to know how someone could assemble that much explosive material without red flagging.”

“I collected coupons.”

“Giles, this is serious,” admonished Willow.

“No it isn’t. He can call the dogs off.”

Ryan shook his head. “It's not down to me. I’m the one who said you were a risk and needed watching in the first place.”

“How kind.”

“It’s nothing personal.” Ryan thought for a second. “Other than you are Buffy’s friend and have enormous potential to make an almighty cockup of your life and take the rest of us to hell with you.” The young officer sat back on the sofa. “What you need now, to make this incident go away, is someone else responsible enough to vouch for you, because as far as I'm concerned this was a completely reckless and unauthorised assault on the undead, leaving fourteen of my chaps getting treatment downstairs and two currently in surgery. They were not happy party goers that we encountered in that barn and you're damn lucky none of my men got killed.”

Willow took Giles’ hand supportively and said, “I can vouch for Giles.”

“It ought to be someone closer, a family member ideally.”

Buffy made her first contribution to the session by muttering, “If he had any family left we wouldn't be in this position.”

But that only caused Willow to wave her hand at her in excitement and say, “You then! Buffy is perfect, especially now they've been sleeping together.”  Willow’s candour triggered Ryan to turn to Buffy and grin boyishly at her slight discomfort, but her main concern was Giles who looked ungallantly horrified at the revelation.

“You've told people?” His voice registered shock warming to anger.

“I'm not people,” Willow protested, but Giles was muttering.

“It's not much to ask is it? A little confidentiality. No? Oh wait, this is Buffy, so yes it is.”

“We’ve contacted your therapist Dr Clarke,” Ryan interrupted. “He’s driving over here.”

Giles looked to the ceiling. “And the day just gets better. Are we telling him too?”

Buffy had had enough of his righteous sarcasm and cut in, “Hey, I'm not the one with the stupid game of how many vampires can I squeeze in a barn before I blow it up. And just how were you going to do the blowing up part anyway?”

“I had a remote detonator.” Giles quickly put aside his indignation and sat back on the couch with mustered dignity. “It was good for twenty meters.”

Ryan rocked on his hip, knocking the coffee table, and retrieved the small object from his pocket, laying it down for group inspection. It looked forlorn and flimsy, its plastic casing had a slight crack along it and even Willow looked disappointed with it.

“I think you two had better talk,” she said firmly, standing and motioning for Ryan to leave the room with her. He rose and Buffy had to stand too in order to let him squeeze past the limited leg space. At the door the soldier stopped briefly, his eyes flashing to the windows.

“We're on the third floor,” he said simply.

“I know,” Buffy said and watched her friends close the door behind them. She scooted to take Ryan’s seat opposite Giles because she needed to look at him squarely.

“Some mini-break,” she stated calmly.

“Yes, I suppose. I’d like to go home now please.”

“So you can plan your next dumb move without telling me?”

“Because you are the soul of discretion?” he countered hotly. “I can't believe you've told Willow that we've been…Why did you tell her that?”

“Because I needed someone to talk to.” It was the truth and the only hard part had been wondering why it had taken her so long.

“She must be so disgusted.”

“Frankly I think she’s used to my taste in considerably older men.”

“With me,” he said coldly and made to stand, though in the narrow space he seemed to think better of it and folded his arms squarely instead. “Your military pals can't keep me here indefinitely. I only agreed to come to a hospital so a doctor could check there were no lasting effects from that bloody taser.”

“How are you feeling?”

“A bit shaky, but I’ll be better when I get home.” She wondered if that was more likely adrenaline or fear, but didn’t say either out loud. Instead she picked up the simple detonator; it weighed next to nothing and didn’t feel like it could set off as much as a firecracker.

“There are still the anti-terrorist people and questions about how much explosive you had,” she reminded him, but he was dismissive.

“That's trumped up and he knows it. I still have a license from my Watcher days. You need to speak to them and make any charges go away. Don't let these military types bully you, you’re the Slayer and they will respect that.” A disturbing thought seemed to strike him. “Ethan suffered appalling abuse at the hands of the Initiative before they finally let him go. You can’t let them keep me, Buffy, please.”

“Calm down, Giles. That was Maggie Walsh’s sick agenda, this is totally different.”

“I have to get out of here, right now.” He tried to stand this time but his legs wobbled, forcing him back down.

“Hey, calm down. It's not the Initiative here, and besides it isn't the military that want to keep you. It's the doctors.”

“But I'm fine,” he pleaded. “No lasting effects from the taser they said.”

“Not those kind of doctors.”

He looked at her in genuine puzzlement, his panic momentarily forgotten.

“Giles, do you understand what you did today? What you tried to do?”

“I tried to even the score and make a bit of a bloody difference,” he said with defiance.

She understood his lies and partial truths, was sympathetic to them even, but that didn't mean she wasn't heartily sick of hearing them. They’d told her not to get angry, but she couldn’t help herself.

“Summoning vampires for hundreds of miles? Inviting them to your big old barn of boom? That's the most basic, most stupid, criminally irresponsible thing you could ever do. Why not just invite them into your house and be done with it?” He visibly shrank at her words but she was angry and frustrated and needed to finish, needed not to be distracted by his show of hurt. “And this,” she paused only to slam the detonator down and watch the casing shatter. “This does not have a twenty meter range. It’s more like two meters, if it even worked at all. But I bet a smart guy like you had a manual switch as a back-up, didn’t you?”

He wasn’t even looking at her; he’d drifted to one of his faraway places in which to hide. Buffy kicked back at her sofa causing it to travel three feet, pulled at the coffee table so she could sit on it and still face him, then took his hands and implored his eyes to find her again.

“Did you even think about me?” she begged. “How I would feel when I found out?”

“I’ve already done that,” he said flatly but his jaw was working, chewing his cheek, showing signs he hadn’t entirely drifted away, but not willing to elaborate further.

“Done what?” But he was too busy watching their hands entwine, stroking her fingers back to respond so Buffy had to race back through what she had said and when his demeanour had changed. “Already invited vampires? To your house? But it’s warded with ancient magicks unless you’ve done something really stupid…”

“Not my house.” His voice was barely a whisper. “I wish I could see mum again. Tell her I’m sorry for what I did.”

They’d never had the entire story from the night Giles’ birthday party had gone so horribly wrong. Forensics had worked out the order Olivia and the family had been killed, and that Giles had fought for his life and prevailed, but no-one knew the more basic details of how the killer had gained access to the house. It had been assumed Giles didn’t know either.

“Are you saying that you invited,” she stopped herself from saying vampire, “your dad into the house that night?”

He pulled back his hands sharply and tried to stand but she blocked his exits with her knees.

“Shit. Leave me alone. Shit.” His agitation was tangible and hostile.

“It doesn’t matter, Giles.”

“Of course it bloody matters.” He was fidgeting badly, reaching for glasses that weren’t there, checking his empty pockets, shooting his cuffs and speaking quickly. “Oh don’t get excited. This isn't some big revelation that makes everything better. It was a small slip on my part I know that, and I know I wasn’t the one that went on the demonic slaughtering rampage. I know that, but it still matters that I did it.”

“Ok. It matters.” He was breathing hard and Buffy ventured a dangerous gambit. “I miss your mom. She was very cool.”

Giles grunted warily at her brazen tackling of the taboo subject, but did at least stop looking for something to clean his imaginary glasses with. Buffy risked on. “And your dad, I liked him too.” It was true, unlike a lot of Alzheimer sufferers he’d become sweet and rather docile. “Of course he was completely fanboying about having the Slayer visit his house. He always remembered my name.”

“He didn’t always remember mine,” Giles muttered but the tension slipped from his body and he slumped back on the chair. “I don't want my life to be this."

Buffy rubbed his knee sympathetically.

“You need to be talking to someone about this stuff. Why can't you just talk to me?” When he made no attempt to answer, Buffy knew it was time. “Then I’m sorry. I've tried so hard to keep you safe and it hasn’t been enough has it? When Dr Clarke comes, they are going to move you to a ward.”

“What? No. I don't agree to that. You can't have me Sectioned under the Mental Health Act.” It was oddly soothing that Giles would know the relevant British law whereas Buffy had had to have it explained to her in great detail. “I’m not some dangerous lunatic,” he argued.

“No-one is saying you are.”

“So I’m a danger to vampires, so what? So are you. So is young Appleby on a good day, I’ll wager.”

“It’s the part about being a danger to yourself that concerns everyone,” she said bluntly. “And it’s just for clinical assessment. Twenty eight days as a maximum they said.”

He leaned forward again, his eyes imploring her. “No. Please. Take me home, Buffy. Let's be together. We can be together. We can talk all the time. I promise.”

It was tempting but she knew, more so than even he, that he didn't mean it. Not really.

“And if we go there, what will I find?” she asked, her voice breaking at the strain of what she hadn’t wanted to know. “Did you even leave me a note?”

The guilty look across his face gave her his answer. He hadn’t thought of her at all when he’d left his house for what he’d presumed would be the last time. He’d already said his goodbye and moved on and it was that, above all, that brought the tears for her.

“I can't do this anymore, Giles. I can't pretend everything is alright even if you want to.”

“But don’t let them do this to me.” He was pleading with her, playing her, pinning his hopes on some presumed mercy she commanded, but she knew the decision was still the right one.

“It’s for the best.”

“Bitch,” he retaliated, but it was a tired anger she could understand. Buffy smiled and swallowed back some of her tears.

“Yeah, but a bitch that still isn't giving up on you, idiot.”

He had no more words, no more arguments. Giles was too tired and he dropped his head on her shoulder, welcoming her embrace, and they held each other quietly until the doctors came.


	18. Sanctuary

**Sanctuary**

Ethan Rayne was generally a heavy sleeper but he woke sharply at his friend’s first stirrings. The duvet was tugged slightly underneath him and he knew, rather than saw, that Rupert was reaching across the bedside table for his glasses. Ethan sighed and rolled across on his back. The circular walls of his bedroom were hewn rock and whitewashed and the morning light that slipped in from the single small window glowed off them. Rupert had propped himself up was looking around the room in general confusion and then at Ethan with specific shock.

“Why are you here?” he asked cautiously.

“Because this is my home,” Ethan replied with lazy patience.

“Yes,” Rupert surveyed the double bed he was in. “But why are you _here_?”

“Because I only have the one bed and I’m not so hospitable or so self-sacrificing as to sleep on the couch. I think the more pertinent question, Ripper, is why are _you_ here?”

Ethan dragged himself up, fully clothed, and rested his back against the headboard. Rupert, he noted with amusement was quickly checking his own state of dress from his position under the duvet. “Don’t worry. Your shoes and jacket are over there.” Ethan pointed to the rocking chair, and his friend finally relaxed and let the duvet fall to reveal a shirt that was now in serious need of an iron.

“I don’t remember coming to bed,” Rupert said cautiously.

“You were acting a little peculiarly last night. How much of it do you remember?”

“I remember knocking on your door. I had to see you. It was already quite late I think, dark anyway. I remember I wasn’t actually sure if you’d be at home,” Rupert began.

“I’ve been doing some work for a chap in Thailand,” Ethan admitted. “But then you knew that or you wouldn’t have picked a time when I was out of the country to launch your one man scourge against the undead of Norfolk.”

Rupert rubbed his chin but answered simply, “You would have tried to stop me.”

“Of course I would. My dear boy, remove the vampires from Norfolk and you drain the county of about its only point of interest.” He was rewarded with a slight smile so Ethan pressed on. “But to return to the pertinent question… it was my understanding that as a result of that rather rash attempt, you’d had a slight change of residence, so again I ask: why are you _here_?”

Artfully, Rupert Giles looked at his watch. “Gracious! It’s almost noon. I must have been tired.” Avoidance being practically his friend’s middle name, Ethan wasn’t entirely surprised at the change of topic but felt no compulsion to lie to him in turn.

“That and the sleeping draft I put in your hot chocolate.”

“What? You drugged me?”

“Nothing else for it. You turned up on my doorstep last night, practically bouncing off the walls, insisting the police were after you. You weren’t making a lot of sense but I gather you think Olivia’s parents are accusing you of murdering their daughter. Ring any bells?”

“Vaguely.” When caught out, Rupert was a terrible liar.

Ethan pressed. “Are her parents out for your blood?”

Rupert swung his legs out of bed and turned his back before answering with a sigh. “No. I don’t think so. Not yet anyway, but it’s only a matter of time.”

“I see. I take it no-one has told them the truth about what really happened? Do you want me to talk to them about it? Or Buffy?”

“Buffy? Oh god, Buffy.” Ethan saw his friend’s shoulders slump. “Buffy is going to mobilise the whole bloody army to find me. Shit. I have to go.” He rose quickly and Ethan stood also and held up his hands.

“No, no. Don’t worry. You’re safe. No-one will come looking for you here, I promise.”

Rupert shot him one of his cock-eyed looks of disbelief. “You live in a lighthouse. It doesn’t exactly blend in.”

Ethan chuckled. “You’d be surprised actually. It’s exceptionally well warded even if I do say so myself.”

“I can stay here then?” Rupert had already reached hesitantly for his jacket but the question was posed with such vulnerability that Ethan had to check himself for wanting to hug the man.

“In my bed?” he dead-panned.

Rupert twisted to shoot a disapproving glare. “ _Here_.”

“Of course you can. As long as you like.” It was so like old times that Ethan felt quite sentimentally foolish and set about on some practicalities to cover his embarrassment. “I’ll go downstairs and fix us some breakfast. The shower and bathroom are down a level, help yourself.”

…

Breakfast had been ready nearly ten minutes when Ethan climbed back up the spiral staircase to the bedroom and found no sign of Rupert and got no reply to his casual calls. He took the further flight to the observation lounge he’d installed when the lighthouse mechanism and mirrors had been removed. He stopped a couple steps short but was through the access point enough to see the full room. It was his favourite space in the building with 360 glass and magnificent views out to sea. The brass telescope had belonged to his father and he liked looking at the stars or just pulling on a beer and watching the clouds.  Rupert was standing with his forehead on the one glass panel that was capable of opening to the narrow ledge where Ethan grew his pot plants. His gaze was fixed on the rocks below. Ethan had never had need of a lock on that door before, but seeing the way his friend stood, it flittered into his mind that he really should have had one added.

“I’m going to be in a lot of trouble for leaving the hospital,” Rupert brooded, aware of his friend’s presence but not turning to look. “They might insist on moving me to somewhere more secure.”

“Yes,” Ethan agreed brightly. “What are the fashions with strait jackets these days? Is it still the same drab colour choice?”

Rupert folded his arms but kept his forehead against the thick paned glass. His body language radiated such fatigue and despair that Ethan resolved he shouldn’t permit his friend to walk alone along the cliff path any time soon.

“I won’t let anything bad happen to you, Ripper. We can straighten this whole thing out.” Ethan completed the last steps of his ascent and went to sit on his wicker chair. “Did I ever tell you about the time I ran away from boarding school?”

“You were expelled,” Rupert grumbled.

“Before then, obviously. When I was first sent there. I absolutely hated it so I ran away back home.”

Rupert banged his forehead slightly on the glass. “This is hardly the same thing.”

“On the contrary, it was life and death to a ten year-old boy.” The banging stopped and Ethan sprawled a leg over the worn edge of his chair. “When I got home, I couldn’t face my parents so I went round to the kitchens and begged cook to hide me.”

“And did she?”

“For two whole days. No-one knew I was there and it was bliss. She was Irish and perpetually fascinating to me, so she and I talked a lot. And frankly I made out in like a bandit in the pantry - I swear food has never tasted as good since. But finally, when I was ready, she borrowed my father’s car and drove me back to the school. I was nervous but she spoke with the headmaster and made sure I wasn’t in any trouble. A real trooper that woman.”

“Your point being that your family were incredibly wealthy and had devoted servants?”

“ _My point being_ that it was good to have a special place to hide. Somewhere to feel safe and a friend to help me when I couldn’t see the options.”

“No.” Rupert sighed heavily but he left the windows and sat on the chair opposite. “Your real point being that you went back.”

Ethan studied him intently before answering, “But only when I was ready, Ripper, I promise.”

…

There was only one car at the agreed meeting place, so Ethan pulled up alongside and waited. Eventually he gained the satisfaction of seeing Buffy Summers huff as she cracked first, left her own vehicle and came across to sit in his passenger seat.

“Have you dropped him back at the hospital?” she asked a shade brusquely.

“No, I have him gagged and bound in the back.” His voice dripped sarcasm, unable to contain the slight anger she always caused him. “Of course I dropped him back.” The woman and her officious ways exasperated him and there was no getting around that.

“Is he OK?” she asked through tight lips.

“He seems fine now. A little embarrassed at having absconded. Made me swear I wouldn’t tell you.”

She turned her head to look at him. “Why?”

“He seems to care what you think of him. So maybe he is nuts after all,” Ethan mused heartlessly, though before she could respond he added, “Did you find out what triggered it?”

Buffy nodded. “Olivia’s parents arranged a visit next week. I called them this morning to ask why.  Seems they’d heard he was remembering more and wanted to ask him if he had any further details about their daughter’s death. They’re not accusing him of anything of course. They seem like nice people.”

“They are nice people. I take it you haven’t told them the full version where vampires and demons are real and rip apart your loved ones?”

“No,” she conceded. “International espionage. Giles’ family party was just in the wrong place, at the wrong time and got caught up in it. All covered by the Official Secrets Act.  Dr Clarke thinks that after months of refusing to discuss what happened that night, Giles had a bit of a crisis when faced with the prospect of her parents asking for a truth he was going to have to lie about.”

“Oh bravo, Dr Clarke. Faboulous work! Even I had figured that one out.”

Buffy turned in her seat sharply. “What is your problem, Rayne?”

“My problem? You, Summers. You’re my problem.” The lady had asked him a question and Ethan felt honoured bound as a gentleman to give her both barrels. “How could you have let things go this far? I thought you knew what you were doing, that you were helping him. I leave the country for five minutes and he pulls crap like this.”

“Oh, because it’s all about you, Ethan?” For a fraction of a second, Ethan wondered if they should both step out of the car, Slayer or no. “You with your secret trips and visits behind my back,” she was continuing. “You’ve constantly undermined my authority-“

“Your authority?” he spluttered. “What authority? Slayer saves the World from dangerous Watcher? How valiantly noble of you.”

“No. Slayer saves stupid Watcher from himself.” She shouted him down. “I care about Giles and I don’t want him to get hurt and you haven’t exactly been supporting me in this.”

Ethan felt the need to defend himself. “I called you as soon as he showed up at my place.”

“Yes, once, you’ve called me exactly once.” Buffy leaned towards him and poked a finger. “But what else goes on between you the two of you? Did you know he was baiting demons and staking vampires for kicks? You did, didn’t you? But you didn’t rush to call me then.”

“I assumed that that was how your two spent your weekends,” he responded primly. “It always used to be.”

“If you mean Sunnydale, I used to be the one doing the staking, not him. I would not encourage him in anything that could get him killed.”

Ethan opened his mouth and closed it again. Buffy too, was breathing hard and they were both misting up his windscreen. They took five.

“I don’t want him to get hurt either,” he admitted softly. “I thought I was helping.”

She surprised him with the sympathy of her reply. “Yeah, that’s OK. I know how that goes. The doctors say he needs the support of his friends.”

“Actually that’s another thing.” Ethan waited until she looked at him. “I don’t like this doctor you’ve picked for him. I don’t think this Dr Clarke is doing any good whatsoever.  He seems to have zero rapport and it’s just getting worse not better.”

“He’s an expert in his field,” she began but Ethan interrupted.

“Well his field isn’t Rupert. You can’t sit Giles in a chair and demand he tells you what happened. He’s stubborn like that.”

She nodded. “I’ve been thinking that too. I’m going to ask for someone else.”

“Good.”

“Ethan, why did Giles run to you?”

“He wanted something you couldn’t give him.” He felt her tense again and suddenly Ethan felt very tired of butting heads and softened his tone. “He just wanted someone else for a time, someone safe.” She dropped her chin to mock and take them back to their comfortable place of mild antagonism, and he took it well. “Relatively safe then,” he ginned roguishly, and she smiled back and Ethan found himself sharing the story of his running away from school with her.

“I suppose it probably hurt my parents dearly when I went to the cook for help instead of them,” he concluded.

“Were they mad when they found out?”

He shook his head.

“They knew all along. Domestic staff don’t have the power to hide kids, borrow cars, or square away school authorities without their parent’s knowledge. She was a cook not Mary Poppins. I imagine she must have told them almost immediately and then they teamed up to let me think I was making my own decision to go back. Took me years before I figured it out, but that’s OK, it was what I needed at the time.” He wrote down a telephone number and passed it across. “Call me if he goes walkabout again or if you need anything.”

She looked at him shrewdly.

“Does this come with an address if I need to find you?”

“Not yet, maybe one day.” His sanctuary was his sanctuary and he worked very hard to keep it that way.

“Uh huh.” Buffy climbed from his car and turned briefly before shutting the door. “Thanks, Ethan.”

“I still think you’re a bossy cow, but you’re welcome.” She pulled a face but retreated and Ethan watched her drive away before starting his own engine. “Oh Ripper, what strange bedfellows you do make of us all.”


	19. About Time

**Title: About Time**

They were sitting on two easy chairs in the ward’s private consultation office, but Giles had grown accustomed to all such consultations as being far from easy and consequently, he slouched in front of his new therapist and hoped the time would pass quickly. He had been waiting patiently enough when she had burst into the room, carrying a large bag of files and documents most of which she promptly spilled on the floor. Giles, soberly dressed in jeans and a sweater, had opted, ungallantly, to remain seated and watch her pick them up for herself. She was young, mid-thirties he thought and mildly chaotic in appearance in as much as she seemed to float in an aura of flyaway fabrics and scarves with a livery of such bright and contrasting colours that Giles wondered if she might actually provoke more nervous breakdowns than she cured. Dr Carole Daniels, he learnt. With red streaks in otherwise auburn hair, at least three ear piercings that he could count and a good number of chunky bangles and rings, none of which looked to be a wedding band. She’d begun by stating that she’d read all the police reports and all his case notes from the other doctors, and had then embarked on a long history of herself and career, to which Giles hadn’t been particularly bothered to listen, noting only that she’d been involved with survivors of the destruction of the Watcher’s Council and had first personally encountered a vampire at age twelve. She was a specialist in her field she said, was not based at his hospital but would be visiting weekly and further available by phone. She had been brought in by Dr Clarke, Captain Appleby and Buffy Summers because they’d felt she could offer a new approach. Did he understand? He did and he nodded. Did he have any questions? He did and he asked it.

“When can I go home?” He was feeling a little blunt and belligerent but she wasn’t fazed.

“When it’s the next best step for you.”

“Meaning?”

She had very large brown eyes and she waited until he met them before answering.

“Rupert, you have experienced an extremely traumatic experience that I cannot begin to imagine. And however you want to nobly dress up your Norfolk expedition, it was still an attempt to get yourself killed. Now, because of your history and specialist knowledge of the occult, you’ve drawn a good deal of attention to yourself with the Army and, not unreasonably, they want to be sure your next attempt won’t take the world with you.”

“I promise it won’t.”

“Good, but I can't let you leave here to make a quiet appointment with your car exhaust either.”

He shifted in his seat, hating that she probably saw the reflex but replied, “I promise I won’t do that either.” with a good deal of charm, and though she smiled, he felt she clearly saw right through him.

“Good,” she repeated. “But I’m not here to be lied to or to act as someone you need to hoodwink somehow. As my contract with you, I’m also not here to trap you or force you into admissions I already know about. I won’t demand you give me a full history of your past life, my focus is your recovery, not ripping open fresh wounds and having a jolly good poke about.”

He murmured, “How charmingly expressed.” But she was not to be deflected.

“I commiserate with your losses, but we need to find strategies to help you cope with the experience.” Giles shrugged, torn between feigning indifference and trying to look like he was complying. Dr Daniels glanced briefly at her notes. “The staff record you’ve had two nightmares since you’ve been here. Is that typical for the time period?”

He shifted again but didn’t answer.

She scratched her chin, rattling her chunky bangles, and offered, “It doesn’t have to be of course. Being admitted to hospital can be disconcerting. The loss of freedom, the staff, rules to follow, other patients. All that can be frightening in and of itself.”

“No, I went to boarding school. It’s actually not so different. Less Latin I suppose.”

“Very well.” She didn’t smile at his joke. “Tell me what you do immediately after a nightmare.” Giles was somewhat disconcerted she hadn’t asked the usual questions about triggers or content, jumping to the end as it were, quite bypassing the good stuff. “How do you calm down again?” she persisted. “Can you sleep straight away? Or do you read? Sing? Brood? What?”

“If you must know I usually make a cup of tea, but I can hardly do that here.”

“Why not?” Her face lit up. “I can get the staff to-”

“No,” he interrupted, the point suddenly being incredibly important to him. “I don’t want one brought. I want to make one myself.” He realised he’d raised his voice and felt self-conscious, but she responded with equanimity.

“Then I’ll arrange for you to have access to the staff kettle. Would that be acceptable?”

He fidgeted but eventually muttered, “I suppose.”

She leaned forward and Giles found he liked that she trusted him with electrical appliances and he no longer noticed the bizarre clothing or the red streaks in her hair. “I’m really not trying to trap you here,” she said softly. “Doing something mechanical, something practical, something familiar that requires a small level of concentration can be a good coping mechanism.”

“It doesn’t make them stop coming though,” he said grudgingly.

“No. But it helps when they do come.” She sat back. “I really don’t want this to be some battle of wits between us. I want to help you, Rupert. This isn’t about cut and thrust, or some psychological game of chess.”

Giles suddenly lost it. “Fuck you,” he spat, his anger was unexpected, even to him, but all his brain was telling him was that her soft words were all lies and he’d caught her on it. “Chess? Yes? You know! You know what happened,” he accused, but then in a horrible second he realised she was either the world’s greatest actress, or she didn’t have a clue what he was talking about. His anger immediately evaporated away to shame, but the doctor was clearly used to irrational outbursts from her patients for he registered that she hadn’t flinched, or looked scared, or even particularly rattled. Under the surface flamboyance, Dr Carole Daniels was tough stuff.

She broke eye contact long enough to give him a moment to compose himself but then surprised him by not challenging him on his outburst or pushing back to assert her authority, instead she dived to her untidy bag and produced a folder of official looking photographs. Upside down, Giles recognised them as crime scene records from his parents’ house. Dr Daniels pulled one picture and passed it across to him. It was his father’s study and  showed a broken chair, an upturned table, chess pieces and a dark stain on the carpet that Giles realised was probably his own blood.

“We thought the chessboard was collateral damage, caught up in the fight. So I promise you, I wasn’t trying to trick you. Can you tell me why it’s important?”

Giles nodded his comprehension and stared at the photograph. She couldn’t have known of course, but she was smart enough to have made the connection, and he quite liked that.

He asked, “Can I see the others?”

“Sure.”

No-one had ever given him such concrete evidence of that horrific night before. He leafed through them in fascination, travelling through rooms he’d known since childhood, but now distantly tarnished by violence. The bodies had been removed but there were white tape outlines and evidence tags. Stray scraps of damaged clothing or jewellery were numbered so that he actually found himself guessing which victim had died where. And he wondered who had put up a fight and who had never stood a chance. His mother’s bedroom seemed barely touched with the bed sheets undisturbed, and he was profoundly grateful for that scrap of evidence.

“Rupert, what’s the significance of the chess pieces?” Dr Daniels’ voice brought him back to the study and he flipped at those photos again. He found one of the mantelpiece, grunted, and passed it back to her. He felt like a game.

“You’ve read all the case files, all the police reports. Why don’t you tell me the significance of this photograph,” he proposed.

She considered his gaze for a while, then the brown eyes dropped to stare intently at the picture and to accept his challenge.

“I can see the top of a fireplace, with a heavy wooden surround giving a broad mantelpiece, simply carved but painted many times. I can make out the bottom of a landscape painting, gilt frame but no artist name.” Giles found he rather liked her literal survey. “On the mantelpiece there seems to be a pipe rack and three pipes.” His father had been the last of the great British pipe smokers, he mused. Giles remembered an absent minded tendency to stuff the pipe in his top pocket before the thing had been completely extinguished. As a boy he’d found the trail of smoke coming from his father’s tweed jacket mesmerising. She continued, “Also a clock that I’d say was from the 1930s, and a stack of letters and envelopes, at least one seems to have blue and red air mail markings. I can’t make out any of the names or addresses.”

She looked up but he waited.

“OK.” She turned the picture abstractly. “I’m looking at a 10 by 8 glossy photograph that is a little under exposed. It is printed on Fuji film stock with a standard white border. The photo has been date and time stamped in the bottom right corner, probably by the camera itself. There are three code letters which I presume identifies the camera or the photographer, probably the former. The date stamp indicates it was taken the morning after the incident, which fits the timings we know. Oh! The clock!”  Giles felt a sensation akin to pride. “The clock is wrong. It’s stopped?” He could see her thinking. “No, it’s slow. It’s about 45 minutes too slow.” She handed him back the picture and made the simple deduction. “He wound the clock back.”

“Yes, he must have.” Giles looked at his fingers and explained, “When I came to, I was tied to a chair, and he wanted to play chess with me.”

“Why?”

Giles frowned. “A grim wager. He said if I won, he’d kill me, but if he won, he’d not only kill me but turn me as well. But I could see the clock on the mantelpiece and I could hear music in the rest of the house.”

“So you played him?”

“I played to stall, played for a stalemate, played to prolong the game. Because the clock was telling me only five minutes had passed since he’d knocked me out and I’d come to. It was telling me that everyone in the party was alive and it was up to me to keep them that way.”

“You couldn’t have known he’d done that.”

“No, I suppose not.” He looked at the photo. “But I’ve wondered since. Maybe I wondered at the time, I’m not sure. It’s certainly nice to have corroboration of a theory.” He added it to the file of others and gave the folder back, watching patiently as she stuffed it untidily back in her bag before speaking again. “Actually,” he tentatively began, “the nightmares aren’t all that frequent. It’s the daytime flashbacks that are more of a problem. They can be more…debilitating.”

“Ok.” His doctor nodded sympathetically. “Let’s talk about how you cope with those then.”


	20. Their Hour

**Title: Their Hour**

Considering the intense physical battle with which she had put the devil pigs of Iowa to bed not twenty-four hours previously, Buffy felt remarkably fresh as she parked her rented car in the hospital parking lot and walked the lengthy access path to the main building and onto Giles’ ward. Getting back to England had taken a long time but hanging out with regular soldiers had taught her a most basic survival skill – sleep whenever you can – and she’d deployed it to excellent effect, both at Des Moines and Chicago airports, and then again on the plane to London Heathrow. A flight that had found Buffy clipped in, sleep masked, and seated in an upright position before the cabin crew had even secured the doors. Only rookies run the risk of getting woken up in turbulence, or look forward to eating the food, or think watching a tiny movie screen in a dark pressurised cabin is a novelty worth maintaining consciousness for.

There was a buzzer system to get access to the ward, but it was hardly Fort Knox, and she knew Giles hadn’t really been trying when he’d walked out three weeks ago. He’d just waited for a change in shift at a time when not all the staff knew him by sight. They’d probably wised up since then, and Buffy felt a little pang of guilt of not being able to visit him since that time.  She waved at the little camera and when the door clicked open, she suddenly felt incredibly nervous. She was after all, actually twenty-four hours late for this visit and she hoped he’d understand about the pigs - though should she even tell him about the pigs or would that only worry him? Maybe she should have bought him a present at the airport to make up for it? The ‘Keep Calm and Fly Away From It All’ tea towel hadn't really seemed appropriate in the circumstances.

Giles was seated in the ward’s reception area, fidgeting with fluff on a scarf and coat on the chair next to him. He rose and shyly smiled as she entered through the double doors, and the guy manning the reception desk smiled expectantly at her too.

“Buffy Summers to see Rupert Giles,” she announced to which the Reception Guy nodded and said, “We've been expecting you, haven't we, Rupert? One hour, now.”

Giles, looking a little tired round the eyes, but otherwise fit and healthy, quickly pulled on the coat and scarf, before swiftly leaning forward to touch her elbow.

“Hello, Buffy.” She felt a brief kiss on the cheek, the kind reserved for elderly aunts and family Christmases.

"Hi," she began but his hand had already left her arm before she'd had a chance to respond to his contact.

“I just need to sign out,” he mumbled and bent away from her to write in the large black book on the desk, checking his watch as he did so. “Right, let’s go.”

Buffy was alarmed. “Go where?”

He looked amused. “Well as we’ve only got one hour, the options are a bit limited. I was thinking we could take a walk round the grounds?”

She looked to Reception Guy who nodded again and explained, “Dr Daniels okayed him to take a daily walk by himself over a week ago.”

Buffy felt incredibly bad she didn’t know that development and blustered, “Oh, right, yeah, sure” unconvincingly, as the doors buzzed open to let them, and her embarrassment, out.

They walked in silence through the corridors and out into the fresh air. The hospital was nestled in a gully of land and flanked by woods on two sides. Giles took her hand and confidently led the way to the northernmost tip of trees where Buffy saw a track with smart wooden benches that had been laid out to picturesquely flank the hospital perimeter. Autumn had occasioned the trees to shed their leaves to a pulpy sludge on the path edges, forcing them to walk in single file in places. Buffy wondered if they were just going to route march, hand in hand, for 58 minutes, when Giles led them off through an overgrown side path, and to a rather dilapidated bench overlooking a shallow green pool.

“You’ve been here before,” she observed.

“I’ve explored a bit,” he confirmed and they sat together, Giles crossing his legs and Buffy contriving to maintain contact by looping her arm through his and leaning her body towards him. He neither pulled away or pushed back, because seemingly having achieved this destination, Giles lost all sense of purpose and they sat in awkward silence for a while, foolishly looking at the stagnant pool for signs of fish that couldn't possibly flourish there. Buffy put her head against his shoulder.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t get here for your case review meeting yesterday.”

“It was the day before yesterday actually, but it doesn’t matter.” His voice was neutral but she assumed he must be upset. Changing time zones was still confusing to her and she kicked herself for being even later than she thought.

“Are you disappointed?”

“Not really. Carole – Dr Daniels that is - made it clear that I shouldn’t expect to be released quite so soon, so you didn't miss that. Actually we had quite a full house. Sir Stuart and Lady Sophie drove over to attend.” Sir Stuart was Master of the College that employed Giles.  Buffy had met him and his wife a couple of times, and when she’d called them to explain Giles’ indefinite leave of absence from work, they had both been very sympathetic. “Turns out, I haven't been fired,” he added, light amazement present in his voice.

“Well, duh,” she responded, and squeezed his arm.

“Not news to you then, but I was surprised. I thought there would be some question of my bringing the college into disrepute, not to mention the theft of college property part, which is usually grounds for dismissal, but apparently not.”

“You were ill, Giles.”

“Hmm. Everybody seems to be making allowances.”

Having known him for fifteen years, Buffy knew better than to react to his more gentler bouts of irony so she enquired if there was any other news.

“Hmm. Yes." He checked his watch. "Carole also wanted to talk with them about my living arrangements. She doesn’t want me to live on my own, when I’m released, not at first anyway, and as the house belongs to the college and is linked to my job, so there was a conversation around moving me into shared halls and generally having more people around.”

“That might be good for you.”

He shrugged. “I refused to budge.”

“Giles!”

“She wasn’t going to release me and I see no point in pretending to go along with things I dislike just to get out of here. I'm not going to lie, and besides, the woman has an uncanny ability to see when I'm sucking up to her.” Buffy conceded his point though she wished to God she’d been present at the meeting to help him make it. “Anyway,” he continued with a smile. “I won out in the end. They agreed my house is just about big enough for two people, so I’m staying put.”

“Oh.” Buffy thought rapidly about her ability to relocate. Dawn was settled and didn’t really need her to play mom. Her sister spoke the better French anyway. Did she, Buffy, need to keep the office in Paris? Could she co-ordinate with NATO via a telephone line? People did. People worked from home all the time, would it matter if that home were in England? She would still need to travel and be away from time to time, so would it be acceptable to the doctors if she weren’t there all the time?

Giles interrupted her thoughts. “So Craig is moving into the spare room.”

“Craig?”

“Craig McCullen. He's doing his doctorate and has some part time tutoring hours. He's going to pick up the warden duties I had for the students in that area.”

“And be your new flatmate?” she couldn’t keep the dismay from her voice and Giles picked up on it.

“Yes. Why does this bother you?”

“You've never mentioned him before.”

“He's Australian. You don't have to mention them before.”

“But he's someone you know?” She covered her disappointment rapidly. “He’s not some stranger moving in?”

“Oh I see.” Giles seemed to accept her concern at face value. “Yes, I know him to talk to in the Common Room. He's very bright. His thesis is quite interesting too it’s about-.”

“Is his thesis relevant?” interrupted Buffy somewhat tetchily.

“No.” Giles was momentarily stung. “Just explaining that he’s not a complete stranger - as you asked. Besides, the other alternative was to put me in some supervised halfway house and I really can’t stomach the thought of that.” His snappiness increased. “By the way, there’s another case review in two weeks, if you’re in this hemisphere and can be bothered to attend.”

“Of course I am. It's already in my day planner and I _will_ be here for it.” She sucked her teeth to contain her own irritation.

“Or I could ask Ethan to come.” He was being prissy now and fishing to provoke her, but fortunately she knew the signs, and even more fortunately, could counter him on this occasion.

“Isn't he back in Thailand?” she answered sweetly, causing Giles to look mildly astonished at her. “We text,” she explained, and when he still didn’t look convinced she added, “About you of course, dope.”  She watched as he processed the implications – in turns horrified, amused, horrified again, and then finally reconciled. They’d been pretty much her own reactions at being buds with a man she’d always considered a thorn in her side and a burr under the saddle of humanity in general. Still, whilst she’d always known that Ethan came with his own character restrictions, at least he was tolerable in byte size text messages and his concern for Giles seemed genuine enough. Sensing her advantage she emphasised, “Anyway, I promise I will be at your next review. And I have a catch up call booked with Dr Daniels tomorrow, so I’m totally on top of this.”

“Hmm.”

"How are you two getting along?"

"Alright I suppose." Giles looked at his wristwatch.

"Has she prescribed anything?"

Giles looked at her over the top of his glasses. "We discussed the medication your friend Dr Clarke prescribed. Carole said they all seemed appropriate. I said maybe so, but that her point was moot as I wasn't going to be taking any of them anytime soon. She said fine, she wouldn't prescribe them anymore then."

"And that was it?"

"Pretty much."

"You've definitely skipped the sucking up part then."

"She doesn't try to humour me either," he griped defensively.  "And ok, I may have relented on the anti-depressants but only because they seem to help me sleep."

"Are you having trouble sleeping?"

"It can get a bit noisy here at night." He kicked a little mud from the heel of one shoe. "Frankly, I'd sleep a lot better in my own bed." There was a hint of reproach and sadness in his voice which Buffy sought to counter with a little flirtation.

"Not all the time." But he didn't share the sparkle in her eyes, in fact he positively shrank from her playful intimacy and she kicked herself again for being out of step and changed the subject back. "So what else do you two talk about?"

He detached her from his arm by leaning forward, and, putting his palms together, he stopped motionless, inspecting the ground that could have been a thousand miles away. He was so still that Buffy grew worried he was having one of his temporary blackouts again.

“Giles?”

“Hmm.” He was still with her.

“Giles, is everything OK? I mean, I know this isn’t a great situation, but are you OK?”

He took a deep breath.

“There’s something you should know, Buffy. Something I have to tell you.”

"Something bad?"

Mentally, she braced herself. If someone was hurting him in there or he needed another doctor she would kick butt and sort the situation within the hour.

“I've been doing a lot of thinking since I’ve been here,” he continued. “Carole has me keeping a journal again and making two lists at the back of it. The first list is of things I like and enjoy, the second is for things I hate or that make me uncomfortable. And you see, I've been thinking a lot about us, about what we do, and where we are on these lists.” He took a deep breath. “Hmm, specifically where we are on the second list.”

It was like a cold slap and Buffy couldn’t breathe.

“What we do, physically,” he clarified, “What we do physically, is wrong of us. They wouldn’t approve, you see. My family. My mother, my father especially. _Watchers, my boy, that’s not what Watchers do_. Olivia. Oh god, Olivia would not approve...” He became aware he was rambling and stopped briefly to compose his thoughts.  “So you see, it isn't right that this has happened as a consequence of their deaths. It’s mocking them and it has to stop.”

“We’re not mocking anybody.” Her words seemed small and futile and he turned to face her.

“Watchers and slayers are not supposed to sleep together,” he declared.

“Oh.” Buffy nodded her head and found her whole body was shaking with it. “Is that an actual rule? Because I never got to read the handbook.” The words were catty and she regretted the tone but he was being so oddly self-righteous about his declaration that she distrusted it instinctively.

“No, but it's always been, erm, somewhat frowned upon, by the Council,” he argued, but he couldn’t hold her eyes as he said it.

“There is no Council anymore. Look, Giles, most slayers don't make it out of their teens so yeah, gross, but you and I are way past the Watcher Slayer stuff, now. I mean, I'm twenty-eight years old for Pete’s sake.”

His voice was soft and stricken, barely a whisper. “You say that like it's a lot.”

She moved quickly to hug him again, forcing past his attempts to shake her loose. He permitted one hand on his shoulder, the other, gently around his waist as they sat side by side.

“What's this really about?” she asked.

“I don't know but we have to stop,” he stressed. “I have to stop. I don't like who I am for sleeping with you.  I don't like that I can't remember how we started. I don't like how shabby I feel afterwards. I don’t like that at twenty-eight, you shouldn't have to take pity on an old man twice your age by...”

“Hey! It's not like that." That suggestion hurt like a knife. For Buffy, it had been an indescribable pleasure not pity and she'd thought he'd been experiencing it the same way. "You know it's not. When we...I mean you are there with me, aren't you?”

“Not all the time,” he admitted. “And that frightens me and I don't understand, but I have to make this change in my life. I can't explain it. I'm sorry.”

She wanted to fight, to argue, to make him understand that it wasn't pity, that they could work through any problems if he would only talk to her, but how could she argue? Having sex with her bothered him, made him unhappy he was saying, so it needed to end. She knew it wasn’t entirely true, that a part of him craved and desired her, but here he was saying ‘No More’ to her face and that counted for something. She knew he'd been conflicted about her for some months, trying to avoid contact, shunting her into the spare room at night but then making love in the lounge by day, but he hadn’t actually plucked up the courage to end it before. Until now. And now, she thought sadly, now she had no choice but to respect his decision.

"Ok." She withdrew her arms from around him and Giles straightened a little at the freedom. “But I’m still coming to your case review in two weeks," she warned. "And speaking with Dr Daniels tomorrow. This doesn’t change anything else about our relationship.”

He sniffed back his emotions. “Understood.”

“You can’t shake me off that easily.”

“I should bloody well hope not.” Giles actually laughed and produced a white handkerchief from his pocket to blow his nose. Buffy would have paid cold hard cash to watch him clean his glasses but he didn’t. “Our hour is almost up. We should be heading back.”

They walked quickly and in silence, Buffy, suddenly feeling incredibly tired and brooding with her thoughts, Giles, grimly determined but happier in his step. Both of them with hands firmly in pockets to shield their fingers from the cold snap in the air. As they reached the main entrance, Giles, recognising the end of their privacy, stopped to speak.

“It wasn't just the second list, you know,” he said gently. "I never want you to think that."

“Well, duh,” she responded. "I would hope not." And they both smiled, sadly in synch for a brief moment, knowing that for now, their time was over.


	21. Empty Nest

**Empty Nest**

“You have way too many clothes, Dawn.” Buffy’s apartment in Paris was pushed to its edges by a mountain of boxes and garment bags, some of which were already trying to escape under the main door. Buffy stooped to inspect a flash of blue polka dots in amongst a cardboard box marked CDs. “You have way too many of _my_ clothes.”

A voice called from the bedroom. “The older look is very chic.” And her sister appeared in the door frame pulling on a heavy suitcase. Buffy took it from her with ease.

“And isn’t this my suitcase?” she said, placing alongside the rest of the spoils.

“You’ll get it back. I’m only moving across the river. It’s really not that far.” Dawn gave a quick assessment of her now empty bedroom. “Yup. That’s everything.”

“Surely some of the milk in the fridge must be yours too,” replied Buffy, though she feared for the floorboards if Dawn piled up any more possessions, and was grateful they’d reached the end. Her sister smiled serenely and perched herself on a heavy trunk, flicking her espadrilles against the soles of her feet as she waited for the concierge to buzz them.

“I’m seriously not going too far away. You can visit anytime.”

“I don’t think Jean-Paul will appreciate my turning up too often. Where is he anyway? I thought he said half past?”

“It’s tough to find parking around here.”

“And he will be struggling with the very, very big truck he’s bringing,” Buffy joked. Dawn opened her mouth to protest but swallowed it. Nothing was going to rock her good mood that day.

“A couple of our friends are bringing their cars too,” she recapped. It will probably all fit in three cars. Or we can make two trips. It will all work out somehow.”

Buffy sat on the trunk next to her and their shoulders touched. She was going to miss the closeness they shared and the smell of her brushed hair.

“I can't believe my little sister is moving in with a guy. Are you sure about this? It's a big step.”

“I know it is, but I’m sure. His place is nearer to my office and I spend all my time there anyway. You like him, don't you?” She looked worried. “You don’t have a problem with him?”

“No. Not a problem. I like him well enough. Maybe not enough to upend my life and move in with him personally,” she paused and smiled in reassurance. “But he seems like a nice guy. Of course, when you and the boys are shoehorning all this stuff into their vehicles, I am expecting to have a quiet word with Jean-Paul. Just to threaten his life if he ever hurts you.”

“He told me you did that when we first started dating.”

Buffy grinned. “That may have worn off by now. A friendly reminder never hurts”.

“What about you? Will you be OK? Living on your own here. I mean, I know you travel on your own all the time but that’s not the same as coming home to an empty house.”

“Me? I’ll be fine.”

“It’s going to be weird.”

“It won't be weird. I shall embrace the concept of space. It will be like having a whole new apartment to myself. I will have full use of the bathroom day or night. I can have friends round and my own choice of TV channels.” She waved her arms exuberantly. “The whole of the couch will be available to me. No longer squeezed into one end.”

“You always say there is nothing on TV,” her sister reminded her. “Seriously, we won't be far away. Just across the river.”

“This isn’t about me. Honestly, Dawnie, I’m excited for you. And excited at being able to see my apartment again. Look! Carpet!”

“You should maybe try the dating thing yourself. The last few weeks you've been very crabby.”

“Have not.”

“Have too. I thought it was me moving out, but it isn’t that, is it?” It was Buffy’s turn to open her mouth in protest but Dawn cut her off. “Because any free time you get, you go to England.” She let the point resonate then spoke more softly. “So what’s changed the past few weeks? Is Giles not getting any better?”

“Oh Giles is doing great.” Buffy couldn’t keep bitterness out of her voice. “Giles is doing fabulous.”

“See! Crabby.” Dawn laughed and Buffy folded her arms stiffly but then smiled.

“Actually, he’s doing really well according to the medical staff. This new doctor seems to be making inroads in his stubbornness to deal.”

“He’s remembering more?”

“I kinda think he’s maybe always had his memories,” Buffy mused. “He just didn’t want them.” Her sister waited patiently for her to continue. “And he’s made some changes in his life and is apparently really positive as a result.” Buffy wasn’t ready to share that she’d been sleeping with Giles, much less the fact he’d ended their physical relationship as part of his therapy. “Like some great burden has been lifted,” she added. That had been the phrase the ward nurse had innocently used, unaware of the details, and Buffy had never felt so insulted in her life.

Dawn flicked her shoes against the trunk in thought.

“It was a messed up night, even by our standards. If I hadn’t delayed you in going to his parents’ house...”

“What happened isn’t your fault.”

“No. I know. But I sometimes wonder what might have happened had you been there.”

Buffy had run through it in her mind hundreds of times and every time not only had she’d saved his mom, Olivia and the rest of Giles’ birthday guests, but on a good night she even prevented his dad being killed too. Life could have carried on normally then.

“We’ll never know,” she said quietly.

“Does he blame me?”

“No. God, no.” Buffy replied vehemently, then thought about Giles with sadness. “He blames himself mostly. Me partly. You, not at all. It was a nice gesture to want to surprise him on his birthday. He knows that.”

“So why with the recent crabby? If he’s doing well, what’s the problem?”

“Hospitals wig me,” she admitted. “Especially those kind of hospitals. And then there was that stupid vampire summoning stunt he pulled, trying to get himself killed and thinking so little of me he didn’t even leave a note.”

“Well, duh. Of course he didn’t.” If Dawn was trying to be comforting, she had an odd way of expressing it. “Not if he wanted to make it look good,” she elaborated. “He wanted to go out a hero. It's probably a good thing he went to all that trouble, it shows he cares what you think of him.”

“It shows he's a stupid, idiotic moron.” The anger was back and Dawn patted her hand in amusement.

“Yours is a special kind of love, Buffy. Never change.”

“It’s just…It’s just…I thought for sure we were going to find him dead.”

Buffy thought not of her desperate journey trying to intercept Giles from his suicidal attempt to clear out hundreds of vampires, but of the night of his party. Her mind was full of images walking through the house that displayed much death, Dawn at her elbow, both with stakes and flinty looks. A family nest, ripped apart by a single predator. Another room, another corpse. Party balloons, a large cake in the kitchen, blood on the stair rail. Dawn hadn't met Giles' family except for Olivia, and could compartmentalise it as just another crime scene as they performed the grim check for pulses, but Buffy had known some of these people. She had taken his mother to her heart. In her eighties, but as sharp as a tack.<< _I’m so pleased to finally meet the woman in my son’s life._ >> “I think you’ll find that’s Olivia.” << _She’s a lovely girl, but I think not._ >> And it hurt to see her as a victim, but as Buffy patrolled the house, identifying, counting, dreading, in every room she was holding her breath for when they would find Giles.

His was the last body, inevitably of course, as fate made them witness it all. He was in what had been his father’s study and looked as lifeless as the rest, but then, no, not dead, unconscious, half-dead. Miraculously he had a weak pulse and was the only survivor. One wrist tied to a broken chair, scattered, smashed furniture and chess pieces bore witness to his resistance, whilst the dust all around him, told Buffy of his victory. In the ten minutes she and Dawn had spent searching the house, the expectation of his death had been unbearable. In those ten minutes it had been incredibly important to Buffy that he be not dead.

“He's a survivor, Buffy. You two have a lot in common.”

The intercom buzzed and Dawn jumped down to answer it, adding, “Plus, you know, total drama queens.”

The next two hours brought startling laughter and joy as Buffy helped push everything, including Dawn into the three cars and wave them off. Jean-Paul had said she should come for Sunday dinner and his friend Henri had engaged in some mild flirting. She thought it was probably his default behaviour and hadn’t taken it seriously. All alone, she poured a glass of wine and despite having the length of the couch, sat in her usual spot and wondered what Giles was up to at that moment. There was nothing on TV.


	22. Traffic

**Traffic**

“So how does it feel to be a free man?”

Walking at her side, Giles tugged his canvas grip further over his shoulder and looked at his watch before answering.

“As it has only been ten minutes and we haven’t made it to the car yet, I can’t really say.”

“But it’s good isn’t it?” Buffy persisted. “You’ve been discharged without a stain on your character.” She smiled to underscore her joke. “I mean, you are feeling better aren’t you?”

“I’m feeling exhausted. Where exactly did you park?” he huffed. “We’re not walking all the way home are we?”

Buffy opened her mouth to remonstrate that she wasn’t responsible for the landscape planning of the hospital grounds and that she’d had to make this walk every time she’d visited him without complaining, but she found Giles was amused and smiling at her, and she'd always found that smile charmingly infectious. She sucked her teeth and pointed to a row of cars.

“We’re the black one at the end.”

“Good, let’s get out of here before they change their minds.” Giles quickened his pace, leaving Buffy to scramble in her purse for the keys.

“Are you worried they might?”

“Of course not. Stop fussing and boot up.”

“Excuse me?”

“Pop the trunk. So I can put my bags in.” Buffy worked the key fob and the locks chomped and the tail lights flashed. Giles slammed away his luggage and produced his cell phone. “Have you got a charger for this? They wouldn’t let me use it, understandable I suppose, but it’s got horribly run down, well dead actually.”

She had, and Giles plugged in and starting clicking buttons as Buffy drove them out though the main gate and onto flat country roads. She had become an expert at the local narrow geography and soon cut through two hamlets and a tricky blind corner before joining a larger dual carriageway and mixing with other vehicles.

“Giles?” He was reading his discharge papers but murmured to indicate she had his attention. “I’ve been thinking. I just want to say how sorry I am about this. I think I might have waited too long before I got you the right help.” She flicked her eyes from the road to his face but couldn’t read his features. “I think maybe because of my own experiences with psychiatric hospitals, I might have been biased against them.”

“Well, that’s perfectly understandable. Don’t give it another thought.”

His words were soothing but he didn’t look up from his papers and Buffy felt a slight pang that several nights spent crying her guilt down the phone to Willow had just been rather breezily dismissed.

“Oh hello, this is Rupert Giles. I need to book a call with Dr Daniels, please.” It was his best telephone voice, crisp and precise and caught Buffy off-guard.

“Why? What’s wrong?” she asked. The brake lights of the cars in front began to swell in numbers and she took her foot off the gas pedal. In the distance, everyone had come to a complete stop.

“Nothing is wrong, Buffy. I’m just supposed to arrange some follow up sessions.” He broke off.  “Oh hello, yes I’m still here… As soon as that? No, I’ve nothing planned for tomorrow. Well, no, that will be fine then. OK. Eight a.m. it is then. Thank you.”

Buffy gestured to the traffic as he hung up. “Do you think there’s a problem up ahead?”

Giles shrugged. “Hard to say. Might be an accident. Might just be some chickens on the road.”

They ground to a halt and Buffy wondered if it was entirely normal to have a follow up call within twenty-four hours of being discharged. If they were worried then surely they wouldn't have let him go? And she was also acutely aware that she had only a short time in England to get Giles settled back in his house and through his first night before she had to fly back to Paris. She was rather looking forward to just hanging with him in private and maybe talk about some stuff that was on her mind.

Giles’ phone rattled on the dashboard and started playing what Buffy recognised as the theme to one of the CSI shows.

“Good gracious,” Giles said before Roger Daltrey could begin to sing earnestly about his life in the fields. “My own house is calling me. How impressive.” He took the call. “Ah, hello Craig. I wondered if it were you. Yes, I’m out, a free man and without a stain on my character. ” As they were stationary, Buffy propped her elbow on the side window and gave him a mild ‘I have that joke copyrighted’ glare. The car in front crept about two inches, but she felt no compulsion to close such a small gap. “I take it you’ve already moved in? Excellent….Oh you Philistine!” Buffy looked quizzically but Giles was lost in his conversation. “I hope you've got some beers that aren’t in the fridge.” He chuckled at the response. “No, I don’t know how long we’ll be. We’re stuck in traffic at the moment. Yes… No. Buffy is driving. Yes, I said Buffy... No, she’s American. Have you not met Buffy? No? Oh well she’s my…er...my...er...” Words gallantly failed him and he began to blush.. "My...er...er..."

“I’m his Ex!” Buffy interjected before Giles could stammer his way to a stroke, and her comment, fuelled by insecurity and hurt pride, was rewarded with explosive laughter from the handset.

“Sort of ex,” Giles added ruefully. “It’s a bit more complicated than that. But um…anyway, yes. Buffy will be staying over tonight. You’ll like her….” He tilted the phone away from his mouth. “Craig says he likes you already.” Buffy nodded coolly and turned her attention to the traffic. The furthest cars had already started to move and the vehicle in front had crept forward another thousandth of an inch in incontrollable excitement.

The phone call was over by the time Buffy had her foot on the gas and was moving at speed again. There was no evidence of there having been an accident, nor even signs of jaywalking chickens, nothing at all in fact to indicate why they had been brought to a standstill but Buffy was counting her blessings just to be moving again. She had known Giles required a flatmate as part of the condition of his release, because Dr Daniels was insistent he shouldn’t be living on his own. She had even known a young Australian academic called Craig had agreed to move in. She just hadn’t realised he would be already there and waiting, with cold beer in the fridge and cheery ‘g’day mates’ in his heart. She hadn’t been prepared to share Giles quite so soon and what if it was too much for him? What if he bottled it all up and waited for her to leave so he could…

She became aware Giles was contemplating her as she dug her nails into the steering wheel.

“Are you alright, Buffy?”

“Me? Sure.” She decided to overtake the three cars ahead and swung out, her foot down. Giles nervously checked his side mirrors.

“Have I said something wrong?” he asked as she slammed back into the inside lane.

“My…er…my…er..” she repeated in her best approximation of his accent. “What was that all about?”

“Ah. Sorry. He caught me on the hop. It used to be so much easier when I could introduce you as my Slayer. I don’t know what to call you now.”

“Don’t give me that,” she countered. “You never introduced me as your Slayer to anyone.”

“I did to my parents.”

Buffy felt herself being so close to saying ‘they don’t count’ that the hot breath of embarrassment still stung her despite her managing to hold back. Gripping the wheel, she checked her mirrors for an opportunity to overtake, but there was no gap and she was stuck.

Then Giles spoke again, mumbling, “Sorry. That was unworthy. Sorry.” And she felt bad at having had any anger.

“You’re allowed to talk about them,” she said gently but Giles was chaffing at the way his seat belt dug into his shoulder.

“I don’t want to bring them up in arguments though.” He stopped fidgeting and drew a sigh. “And I do talk about them. Just not to you. Sorry.”

“No, I should apologise. You just caught me off guard with the 'my...er...my...er' thing. My whole lack of a credible label in your life sucks.”

“We need better labels,” he agreed, shifting to the practical. “’Ex’ doesn’t work. It implies more of a relationship than we had - more than just sex anyway - and also a relationship that is over, sometimes bitterly so. We’re no longer sleeping together, but I don’t look on our relationship as in the past, nor bitter.”

“Not bitter, no. How about ‘friend’?” she suggested. “It’s safe and honest isn’t it?” Giles nodded. “Hi, I’m Buffy. I’m your friend who sleeps on the couch.”

He frowned. “You don’t have to do that.”

“Now you’ve got Craig staying I think I do. I can hardly sleep in the spare room.”

The penny dropped.

“Bugger. I hadn’t actually thought of that. Sorry. I’ve not had to be practical these last few weeks, dear Lord, I’ve become institutionalised. You read about such things. Idiot! I need to get it together before I need someone to tie my shoelaces and bring me cocoa. Damn though." A new thought struck him. "I wonder if he’s got any milk in? Or tea? Maybe I had better call him back?”

“Chill, Giles. It will all be OK. He’s a big boy. He will have groceries other than beer.”

“He is Australian,” he reminded her but her logic held and he didn’t hit speed dial.  “What would I do without you?” He smiled fondly at her. “Best friend even?”

The Who interrupted them before Buffy could make any reply Giles barked a frustrated ‘What?’ into his phone before relaxing at the sound of a smooth, honey dripping voice. “It’s not really a good time to talk.” He swapped the handset to his ear furthest from Buffy but she had already guessed.

“I thought he was in Thailand,” she griped.

“Buffy says hi.” There was a long monologue from his caller, during which Giles giggled, smiled and tried to hide his laughter as a coughing fit. Eventually he managed to summarise in a neutral voice. “Ethan says he hopes you are well.”

“I bet he does," she growled before shouting, "Talk to the fist, Rayne!” To which Giles beamed and felt licensed to pick up his conversation.

“Yes, I’m a free man, Ethan. As of today. Released without-” He caught Buffy’s eye. “Without any problems. When are you coming over to visit? I’d love to see you.”

Buffy ground her teeth but decided all she could do was focus on the road ahead.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's note: For the curious, Giles' ringtone is Baba O'Riley by The Who, though I daresay someone else had to set it up for him.


	23. Tetris

**Tetris**

Buffy was not asleep when it happened. Giles’ sloppy leather couch was surprisingly comfortable when layered with sheets and a duvet, and she had snuggled down with the lights off with every expectation of sleep, but it hadn’t come. Instead, in the darkness, she had re-lived and reworked her memories as the mantle clock ticked the hours by.

She had hidden Angel from the others on his return from the demon dimension and spent a lonely vigil containing his rage, waiting for his soul to reset its balance against his suffering. She’d chained him like an animal and tossed him comforting bags of blood until she knew he wouldn't rip her throat out on instinct. The others would have interfered, would have tried to stake him - or demanded she do it - and that, she knew, would have been wrong, so she kept him to herself. And the strategy had worked because Angel did recover. Only with Giles, though not exactly posing the same threat, things had worked out very differently. His suffering had seemed only to increase as he’d isolated himself from the Scoobies. She’d thought she’d understood. Thought it similar to her own feelings on being resurrected, and that with time he would put his traumatic experiences behind him as she had done. And she thought she alone could be the one to guide him, that she alone should help him by hiding from the others.  That maybe she’d thought wrong, physically hurt her, but her introspection did at least mean she was not asleep when it happened.  
  
At first there was a shout upstairs, followed by painful, lung sucking screams, in the middle of which was the sound of a bedside lamp smashing. Buffy threw off her duvet and sprinted up the stairs only to find she had finished second in that particular foot race. The other bedroom door was wide open and Giles’ new Australian housemate, Craig, had beaten her to the bedside.

“Hey, Rupert, look at me. Come on, look at me.” Craig was young, early thirties, dark haired and trim. He sat on Giles’ bed, without a hint of self-consciousness, in just his boxers and a tight black sleeveless tee-shirt with a red stripe. His arms were comforting, his hands soft and his Australian accent gently insistent. “That’s right, yes. Shhh. It was just a dream. It’s over now. Try to breathe naturally. That’s it.” Giles was crying in his arms and Buffy felt displaced and isolated like she was watching something uncomfortable on TV.

“What happened? Are you OK, Giles?” she asked, but perhaps a little too loudly because the spell was broken and Giles sniffed, snorted and snapped away from the younger man. Rising quickly, he grabbed a robe, brushed past Buffy in the doorframe without making contact and bolted the bathroom door after him.  She heard the shower start almost immediately.

Craig smiled at her. “He’s just a bit embarrassed. Don’t let it worry you.” And then he yawned and stretched his long arms above his head. “Put the light on and we can see the damage. I think I heard breaking glass so be careful with your feet.”

She flooded the room with light and stooped to inspect the broken bedside lamp. Giles’ glasses were on the floor but undamaged so she put them safe on top of the chest of drawers. Craig disappeared briefly and returned with a dust pan and brush and between them they worked quietly until they had all the fragments. “Do you know where he keeps his spare sheets?”

“Oh.” Buffy looked at the jumbled, sweat-stained bed and saw Craig had a point. “Bottom drawer I think.”  She pointed to the airing cupboard just as the bathroom door opened.

Giles shouted, “I’m making tea.” And they heard him head down the stairs.

Craig stripped the bed and Buffy busied herself retrieving fresh laundry.

“I’ve never seen him like this before,” she confessed. “I mean, the doctor told me he sometimes gets nightmares, but he’s never had one when I’ve stayed here before. He’s been weird in other ways, just not like this.” Craig tilted his head on one side to look at her. She couldn’t tell if it was in amusement or interrogation. Eventually he reached for the corner of one of the fitted sheets and pulled up the mattress.

“It’s a pretty common thing,” he said as his strong hands looped a second corner. “I don’t think you should read too much into it.”

“Really?” Buffy darted to the opposite end and fitted the rest of the sheet. “How come?” she began, slightly ashamed at having just admitted Giles had never confided in her about the nightmares and wondering what else was he keeping from her, “How come you know what to do?”

They worked a pillow case each.

“Oh, common sense mainly. And my dad used to have freak outs like this when I was growing up. It was scary at first, but kids adapt.”

“Your dad was a…?”

“A soldier. He served in an armoured regiment in Vietnam.”

Buffy stopped plumping to look at him. “He was American?”

“No. Australian 3rd Cavalry,” he responded brightly. “They were in it too. I guess he saw plenty of things none of us today wants to imagine.”

“I'm sorry.”

Craig tossed out the fresh duvet cover to air it. “He was actually ok most of the time, you know? A real together guy. He still runs his own business, selling and maintaining lawnmowers. Don’t go thinking he’s a basket case or anything. It’s just sometimes he'd get these real ripping nightmares and wake up half the neighbourhood.”

“Did they stop?”

“They got less frequent maybe. I came to the conclusion that his memories were like some awkward Tetris piece that drops in out of nowhere, then doesn’t slot in properly and just messes the whole game. And then you have to reset and start again.”

She dropped her chin and frowned. “That’s your theory?” It didn’t sound like something that would get the backing of the American Psychiatric Association.

“Pretty much. Oh I did all the reading as a kid. Researched all the popular theories. Guilt at inadequate self-conduct in a crisis, feeling let down by others, old psychological wounds that are re-triggered. Survivor guilt has pretty good PR in popular circles and I lapped it all up. I read them because I thought I could find the answer. I thought I could find the right words, and have that special magical moment that fixed everything. But it doesn’t work that way. Life is not like an episode of M*A*S*H, all sorted in twenty-three minutes. Instead, it takes an awful lot of patience, so I gave up wanting to be a psychiatrist.” He grinned. “And I discovered I loved mediaeval European history a whole lot more.”

“But Giles has been through bad experiences before and he didn't react like this.”

“Really?” He seemed intrigued and about to ask her more but thought better of it. Buffy knew there were some wild rumours flying about campus about Giles’ past and she wondered how much Craig had been told or if he subscribed to any of the abundant Secret Agent Rupert theories. “Sometimes, shit just happens,” he reasoned in answer to her question. “My old man was regular army, and even now I’d back him in any kind of fight, but I know lost his APC and six of his buddies on a single night and that never sat right with him. He once told me he didn’t know how to grieve for them, because when he mourned one, he felt guilty about not missing the others as much. So there's always something. It's never clear cut.”

“We had such a good day today though. I mean a nice, normal day. We were laughing. He was laughing. Do you think I brought him home too soon?” she asked earnestly. “Should I be calling his doctor?”

“I dunno.” He stretched again, clasping his wrists high above his head, pulling his chest muscles taut. “Why not go downstairs and find out?”

He smiled boyishly and she felt relieved this man had moved in and could be relied on to help with Giles. She had failed to cure him all by herself, but now with Craig, maybe the two of them could work this out.

“OK, what do we do next?”

“Whatever you like.” He picked Giles’ glasses from the drawers and handed them to her. “I'm going back to bed.”

“You don't want tea?” She felt rising panic at being left alone.

“Never touch the stuff.”

“But he’s down there. Making tea,” she emphasised. Her vision of the two of them having a long heart to heart chat with Giles and fixing things didn’t hold up if her new partner in therapy was just going to leave her to it. After all, she’d spent almost a year failing to get Giles to even admit he had nightmares about what had happened.

Craig tilted his head again and this time it was definitely amusement.

“It was just a nightmare, Buffy. Don’t assume it means anything more than it does. Go and talk to him. Better yet, go and listen to him.”

“But I’m not cut out for this. I’ll just screw it up. I'm sure he'd much rather talk to you.”

“I may be as cute as a button, but I’m not the one he’s waiting for down there.”

“But…”

“Good night, Buffy,” he said cheerily and closed his bedroom door.


	24. These Foolish Things

**These Foolish Things**

It was just a dream. He knew he was in a dream but young Rupert still couldn't break free. He tried punching walls and banging his head to wake up. He began to shout, to scream, but there was no sound, only laughter from somewhere distant, and the constant twisting pain as the nightmare folded around and squeezed once more. Then suddenly, mercifully, there was a light, warmth, soothing words, and a way back.

“Hey, Rupert, look at me. Come on, look at me.” His mother's voice, full of concern, her arms pulling him up from the sweat stained bedclothes. He knew he shouldn’t look at her, only hug her to make her real. “That’s right, yes. Shhh. It was just a dream. It’s over now. Try to breathe naturally. That’s it.” He wanted to look at her, to see her, but a small part of his brain told him it was impossible for her to be there.

"What's happened, here?" The new voice was formal and angry. Briefly he thought he saw his father standing in the doorway of his bedroom, pulling at the belt of his green dressing gown, irritated at having his sleep disturbed before an important day at The Office. Disappointed by weakness once again.

"What happened? Are you OK, Giles?" Giles recognised Buffy's voice in an instant and snapped fully awake. He was embarrassed to find it was his young Australian house mate, Craig, who he'd been hugging like a baby. _Shit. Shit. Shit._ Giles grabbed a robe hurriedly on his way to the bathroom, locked the door and turned on the shower to mask his confusion.

He was more than half way through his second whisky when Buffy came down the stairs. The shower hadn’t really helped but he recognised the need to quit it before Craig and Buffy became concerned enough to break down the bathroom door, so he’d left them chattering upstairs and seated himself at his dining table with a glass and the bottle. So far he’d resisted the urge to throw away the cap but was still manfully intent on putting as big a hole in the bottle as he could muster when Buffy shot him some mild censure.

“That’s not a cup of tea,” she observed.

“It’s easier.” He drained the glass after answering and waited for the lecture. Surprisingly, she silently headed to the kitchen where he heard her filling the electric kettle. After further sounds of cupboard doors, mugs, teaspoons from the cutlery drawer, Giles rose and stood in the cramped kitchen doorway to watch her.

“Only two cups?” he queried.

“He’s gone back to bed,” said Buffy as she dropped a tea bag into each mug.

“I shall have to apologise to him in the morning.”

“Maybe. He’s pretty chill about it though. You’re not the first person he’s pulled off a ceiling.” She stopped looking at him, preferring to watch the kettle as she asked, “Want to talk about it?”

“Nope.”

She nodded and they finished making tea in a silent joint effort, Buffy pinching out the used tea bags into the bin as Giles applied milk and carried them back to the table in the living room. His ‘nope’ had been harsh, designed to shut her down and it had worked. She sat at the corner and stretched up one knee on the chair, avoiding looking at him as much as he was avoiding her. Neither of them touched their mugs and Giles thought back to his previous session with his therapist, Dr Carole Daniels.

_“When you get home, it could be useful to talk to other people.”_ She’d cut off his argument before he’d even had chance to voice it. _"To people other than me.”_

He’d harrumphed at her suggestion - _“Telling colleagues my family was killed in a vampire attack isn't likely to provide reassurances as to my sanity.”_

_“I was thinking more about Buffy.”_

_“Buffy just wants to hear everything is OK.”_

Buffy nodded to the whisky bottle and broke into his thoughts. “Was it a bad one to justify that?”

“Mm? Oh, no, not really,” he said. “It’s just good to be at home and be able to pour alcohol. Not so much an option at the hospital.”

“And brood?”

He disliked her analysis, disliked having to justify his behaviour in his own home, and he really disliked the word ‘brood’.

“It was just a nightmare,” he retorted. “It was even about…” He stopped before he betrayed himself. “About anything in particular.” Buffy dropped her eyes to the untouched tea and remained silent.

_“Rupert, it’s natural she wants the best for you, but I don’t think she wants you to lie to her. Give her a chance to listen.”_

“I’m not brooding.” He felt the childishness of his words, their pointless defensiveness against a woman who’d been to worse places than he had, and who was now patiently waiting for him to talk to her. He was painfully aware she would be flying off the next day, out of his life again, and he was keeping her from her made up bed on the sofa. Giles fidgeted in his chair and pulled his robe a little tighter. “The thing is, no matter how many times I tell myself to be rational and go back to bed,” he paused with a weak smile. “I can’t seem to be able to.”

Buffy tilted her head thoughtfully and asked, “If Dr Daniels were here, what would she say?”

That was easy. “Oh, she’d be all practical and ask if I followed my routines. There are things we’ve agreed I should do to calm down after any episodes,” he explained.

“And did you?”

“I’m home now. I shouldn’t need them.” Again, Buffy made no challenging response, leaving Giles with his thoughts, until he continued, “And she'd say _‘That's not the strategy we agreed upon. We talked about having too high expectations at the start ’_. And I'll say, _‘I thought I was over this stage, I didn’t think I had unreasonable expectations’_ .” He paused. “It's not as if it were a particularly bad nightmare. I can’t even remember what it was about now.”

“So why can’t you go back to bed?”

It was a good question and one worthy of his therapist. He looked at his sofa and Buffy’s messy duvet and pillows. She’d accepted his need to put space between them at night, to resist falling into desire and comfort pattern that just made him feel so dirty the next morning. He’d wanted his freedom back from her expectations even if Carole had advised checking first what Buffy’s expectations actually were.

“I think it’s because at night, sometimes when I’m alone, there are too many memories. Oh not of what happened,” he clarified quickly. “But memories of _her_ come to me. Memories of bedtime stories, or looking after me when I was sick. Childish things like reassuring me there were no monsters under the bed." He studied the grain on the table as if it might move. "When I was very young, before I learnt to read even, I would make her check for monsters while I waited at the bedroom door.  And when she gave me the all-clear, well, I knew everything would be alright.”

Buffy smiled. “Would you like me to go upstairs and check?”

He judged her offer to be worth a mild glare. “This thing is alarmingly Oedipal enough as it is without you turning into my mother.”

Buffy grinned and even Giles smiled but then another session with the doctor floated up from his memories. He’d misspoken something and she’d pulled him up on it.

_“You didn’t kill him. Your father was killed by a vampire. He was already dead when you staked him.”_

_“Yes.”_ Giles had stammered, _“Yes, I know this. I know this.”_

_“You just said you killed him, but you've been the one at great pains to explain the difference to me, so what is this?”_

_“I know I didn’t, I know... but… but... it was like him though,”_ he’d confessed. _“It was like how he used to be. Before the dementia made the sweet old man I could forgive."_

Giles groaned at the memory, pushing away the painful conversation.

“My father, by contrast, was never very reassuring,” he said at last to Buffy. “But then, his life was all about monsters, although I didn’t realise that at the time.” The black irony of his next thought wasn't lost on him. “He was the one that brought them into the house.”

He reached for the mug but he’d lost track of time and the tea was stone cold. A solution to the problem presented itself to him

“Perhaps if you came to bed with me?” he asked hopefully.

She looked him in the eyes. “Are you sure that’s what you want?”

“Well, yes. I mean, just to sleep. I always sleep better when there’s someone else there. It’s calming I suppose. Not being alone. Childish maybe, but I just sleep better with company.”

Something he’d just said appeared to wrench all the warmth from the room because Buffy was folding her arms and giving him only cold eyes.

“When you say someone else... You mean not just me?”

It was a terrifically important point for her– he saw that - but he held back from clarifying any differentiation.

“Not just you. No,” he said, and watched as she made small pacing movements about his living room. She wanted more from him but he held his tongue.

“You were the one who was uncomfortable with us sleeping together.” Her pacing became small rapid triangles. “We’re friends, not lovers. That was what you wanted. But now I find it’s not just me. Maybe you should call Ethan?”

“I only meant to sleep.”

“ _We_ never just sleep.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.” He made for the whisky bottle and glass and fractionally realised in time that he didn’t want a drink, his actions had been instinctive and designed to hurt her, it all felt horribly like he was playing for her pity and that was the last thing he wanted from her. Resolved, he put the bottle back on the shelf and took the glass and tea mugs to the kitchen to rinse through. He had to be stronger, had to at least look stronger. On his return, she had taken to the couch and wrapped the duvet around her, making her answer abundantly clear.

“Not even to just sleep, Giles. Besides,” she softened her tone a little. “I can’t stay every night with you. I have to leave in the morning. What do you do tomorrow night? And the night after? Just how obliging is Craig?”

“Alright, I get the message.”

“But you can stay down here. If you want to read or something quiet.” She pulled the duvet tightly around her like a bob under her chin, and stretched out her legs, leaving no room on the sofa.

“No, it’s OK. I’ll go up. Good night.” He didn’t hear if she answered him.

_“And how did Buffy take your decision to end the physical side of your relationship?”_

_“I don’t know. OK, I think. Probably a bit upset, no-one likes to hear that do they?”_

_“Have you explained all your reasons to her?”_

Giles heard the click as Buffy switched off the lights behind him. _“Oh I can  hardly do that.”_


	25. Probation

**Probation**

Giles wasn't sure if it was shock or awe he was feeling as he muttered, "This is getting out of hand."

And indeed, the table in Sir Stuart's private study was practically buckling under the weight of selections of fruits, salads, triangular sandwiches and delicate cakes perched on tiered platters. Eschewing temptation, Giles continued to stare morosely at the fayre with his hands firmly in his pockets.

"Totally," agreed Dr Carole Daniels. Though less sympathetically, she grabbed a bone china plate and proceeded to load it. "There seems to be even more than last time. It is rather a lot for just the two of us."

"It's like something my grandmother used to do," Giles offered gloomily. "She used to do an incredibly formal High Tea thing on a Sunday afternoon."

"I gather Lady Sophie likes to cater for her guests whatever the circumstances. I'll have another word with her, though do try the salmon thingies. They are delicious."

"I'd rather not." Giles pushed away from the table and sat himself on one of the high backed leather chairs that the Master of the college used for tutorials in his home. He waited as his doctor investigated the selection of exotic tea bags on offer, and grappled with the plunger mechanism on the hot water flask.

"So then," she began, as she swirled the teabag in her cup. "How is the academic probation going with Sir Stuart?"

"It's fine. No complaints about my homework. No poor grades to report back on. Everyone is being very kind. Understanding. Hospitable." He waited for the next question but Carole fixed him with her patient look, the one that said 'I know there's more you're not telling me.' "Alright, I'm finding it extremely uncomfortable if you must know. I hate being on everyone's radar. I hate being a cause for concern. A cliché. Poor old Giles. He lost his family you know. We must all be terribly nice to him. Pamper him. Let him eat cake."

Carole removed the teabag with the back of her spoon then gestured to her plate with it. "This really does bug you, doesn't it?"

"It feels uncomfortably like a reward," he admitted. "For being a good boy this week, for getting my Latin declensions correct and not starting an apocalypse."

She looked at him thoughtfully. "For my NHS consultations I'm lucky if I can find a vending machine that works let alone produces a decent cup of tea, but I can arrange a meeting space at the local hospital if you'd prefer that?"

"Good god." Giles narrowed his eyes. "I'm not looking to be punished, just not quite so lavishly rewarded. This is fine. It's very good of them to let us use their house for our sessions. I'm not ungrateful, really. I just don't want Type II Diabetes from our time together." He smiled playfully. "But you tuck in by all means."

She smiled firmly back and brought her tea and plate to the seating area. Arranged in the leather chair opposite she asked, "How are you and Craig getting along?"

"Fine. We've settled into a routine. Shopping, cooking. He's even got me out running in the park with him."

"Running?" She seemed impressed. "Running is good. Exercise, endorphins, adrenaline, fresh air..."

"Shortness of breath, looking a prat, having a cardiac arrest by the roadside," he interrupted. "I haven't been running since I left Sunnydale. It was rather expedient hobby then. There was a lot of running after Buffy one way or another, but I forgot how much I enjoyed it."

"That's good. I approve."

"And," he added, "It has the advantage of being a socially acceptable form of self-harm. So that's good too."

She ignored the provocation. "How are you adjusting to other aspect of the living arrangements? Have you shared with anyone before?"

"I had a vampire chained in my bathtub for a time," he deadpanned, though he immediately regretted it as she returned a look of 'and you're going to tell me all about that someday'. "It's a really long story," he added. "It's not important right now."

She shrugged. "Did you and Olivia ever live together?"

"No. We weren't the sort of people who wanted to merge our living arrangements. Or if we were, we never found out about it in time."

He watched his therapist sip her tea and wished he hadn't been so stubborn about making one for himself.

"Is it a big enough house for two people?" she asked. "There were concerns about space."

"The second bedroom is very small, just a single bed really. More of a child's room. It's not really suitable for Craig. He's got a girlfriend who works in London. She comes up for weekends sometimes. I did wonder if I should offer to swap bedrooms with him?"

"Why? Is he asking you to swap?"

"No. He hasn't mentioned it."

"It's your house, Rupert."

"I think you'll find it belongs to the College," he said tartly, but she wasn't to be deflected.

"You are the main tenant. He's living there rent free because he volunteered to take on some of your Warden duties and because it's not appropriate to your recovery to be on your own right now."

"And what happens when he finds it too cramped and he wants to move out? Will you find me another babysitter?"

"Does he want to move out?"

Giles shook his head. Craig seemed happy enough with the situation for now but he knew that would alter someday.

Carole raised a new tricky point, "How do you feel about his girlfriend staying over?"

"Oh it's not a problem," he answered quickly. "Really. I go away for the weekends when she's up. It's uncomfortably cramped otherwise. She's nice, really nice. I don't have a problem with her. I just don't want to be a problem for them. I can't expect him to live like a monk."

"So where do you go on those weekends?"

The need for tea became too great; Giles rose impolitely to make himself a cup.

"To either Ethan's or Buffy's," he said over his shoulder. "They vie for my presence. It's like having divorced parents fighting over me. Or so I imagine." He kept his back to Carole as he fussed his own cup and saucer. "So I really don't need to give him the larger bedroom. Excellent. I'm glad we've talked this through."

There was a silence and he was conscious she was waiting for him to return to his seat before posing her next question. She took a bite of a sandwich and sipped her tea patiently, but her eyes never left him as he brought back his own drink and fidgeted back into his chair.

"Have you had anymore thoughts about the nightmare you experienced your first night home?"

He tilted his head in disapproval. "That was weeks ago now. I thought you didn't go in for dream analysis?"

"I don't, but you made a distinct point that it was the first time you'd been a child in any of your dreams. I wonder if you've thought any more about that aspect yourself?"

An irritation rose. "I see what you're doing. My father and I weren't always close, but as I child I was very bloody happy, thank you very much. So I see what you are doing. You are expecting some major revelation about how he wouldn't let me have a puppy."

"I'm honestly not." Carole's voice was equally firm. "I'm just asking to consider these feelings you are experiencing, why are they ones that you associate with childhood? So far you've mentioned homework, babysitters, tea with your grandmother. You keep making these references, not me."

Giles stood and paced his exasperation.

"No. All this, all that has happened, is not about my childhood. I lost my whole family to a vampire. It killed and turned my father and then killed everyone else. That's the big trauma. That's what happened, and that's all what happened." He ran his fingers through his hair. "I just need everyone to stop treating me as a child about it."

"Ah. Now that's better. Go with that. You think that's what is happening?"

"How else to describe it? The need for live-in supervision. Having my work marked. Buffy and Ethan doing Kramer versus Kramer? Maybe I just want control of my life back. Maybe I'd like my driving license back, yes, in fact, please. That would be a start. You have that in your power."

"Alright if you want to talk about that, we can. Have you experienced any disassociation episodes since your release from hospital?"

"No," he replied adamantly, but she was waiting again for him, with those damn eyes. "It was nothing," he mumbled. "Ten seconds of embarrassment in front of Craig and some of his friends." Still she watched him. Giles folded his arms. "It was nothing, it was stupid… There were no lights on at home so I thought the house was empty. I walked in, and found a group of strangers looking at me. They were just talking, it was nothing sinister but they'd stopped when I entered and stared at me… It was just a surprise that's all. I'm not used to sharing, as you said, so finding strangers in the house was a bit unexpected and I froze for a brief moment."

The silence from his therapist was getting unbearable. "Are you being paid by the word?" Giles prompted.

She rested her chin on her hand thoughtfully and offered, "Vampires can't come in without an invitation."

"They weren't vampires."

"But they were something? You were frightened by them? They triggered some sort of memory for you, something that caused you to shut down from the moment. Why was that? Where did you go? In your head, where were you?"

"It was nothing to do with childhood," he replied warily.

"I don't doubt your childhood was awash with puppies, Rupert." Her voice was forceful. "Just answer my question."

He looked to his watch theatrically, but it provided him with no relief, telling him he still had twenty minutes left on the session. Walking out would be really childish, and it would only cause difficulties further down the line. Besides, he realised, unlike the other doctors he'd spoken to, he always answered Carole's questions eventually.

"It was something from Sunnydale," he said finally. "After I'd been fired and Buffy had gone to college. We had a rogue slayer called Faith and the Council sent a retrieval team for her - retrieve or eliminate - not that they were the sort of people that made much of a distinction. They had let themselves into my home and were waiting for me. Ostensibly to ask for information about Faith but..."

"You thought they might have come to retrieve or eliminate you?"

He nodded. The bastards had enjoyed putting the fear of God into him and he'd felt so… helpless.

"The Council of Watchers didn't tolerate threats to its security, you see," he said hesitantly.

"Work through what you are feeling right now, Rupert. Say it out loud."

"In a situation like this one, they would have…" He couldn't say it bluntly. "They would have taken a more Old Yeller approach."

He didn't want a response from her to that. She didn't do pity but he didn't want professional sympathy either. Giles hated all the clichés. He hated not being in control. Automatically, he drifted to the study table to turn his back on her and pretend an interest in the catering. He loaded a plate, at first mindlessly, then gradually caring about the separation of sweet and savoury.

Eventually he returned to the leather wingback chair and sat forward on its edge.

"These feelings of childhood I'm getting. I think…I think it's not that people are treating me as a child, but that my life is not my own to control. There is uncertainty about my future. You report back to the military on my progress and they may still decide I'm too great a threat to be running around free. One slip and this doesn't end well. Or even no slip but they tire of waiting to hear everything will be ok. Then this might all be for nothing."

Carole nodded. "You've always known the military may step in. We've talked through their involvement before."

"But they could put an end to this at any time," he insisted.

Carole leant forward in her chair also. "Why do you doubt that everyone simply wants the best for you?"

"Because it's been a long time since I've allowed myself to believe that. Oh I do appreciate what you, Buffy and Captain Appleby are doing for me, even Lady Sophie's excessive hospitality. I'm just not sure what the best for me can be anymore."

She looked at him sincerely. "I promise you, we are still working on that."

Giles griped, "I'm not going to get my bloody driving license back anytime soon, am I?"

"Ten seconds is an improvement on ten minutes but it's still not safe for you to be behind the wheel of a car just yet. I speak not just as your therapist, but as a fellow road user."

Giles slumped back in his chair. "You're right that I've always known about the military. That this is a second chance and there won't be a third. I guess I wasn't bothered when we talked about it before. Funny. I seem to care about the outcome now."

"I wouldn't say that was funny, Rupert. I'd say that was progress."

He nodded and solemnly ate a sandwich.


	26. Scholarly Pursuits

**Scholarly Pursuits**

St. Catherine's Reading room in the Bodleian Library was by far Giles' favourite place to work whenever he was in Oxford. For one thing, very few people even knew it existed let alone had privileges to use it. It was not mapped on any floor plans and access was through two nameless doors and then required a signed out key to gain entry through a third door made of heavy oak. All work undertaken in that room was viewed with the utmost discretion as permitted readers had access to materials from the Sensitive Collections, the sort that would never be indexed on any open access computer systems. Kings, Chancellors and Watchers had used that room for centuries: it was a quirk of his calling that Giles had first been given permission to use the room as an undergraduate, and probably a complete oversight that he could still use it. He'd been surprised to discover his rights hadn't been pulled due to any of his splits with the Council, nor even with the destruction of the Council itself. No-one had questioned the truculent eighteen year-old's right to be there, just as no-one challenged the retired Watcher's business now. Membership appeared to be for life.

The formidable Fiona was visiting Craig that weekend and Giles had taken advantage of the reduced workload caused by his academic probation to arrange four days at his old college to access some research materials he knew were there. In truth he had his pick of reading rooms, but he'd always liked the seclusion of St Catherine's and the whispered continuity of inheritance it conferred. The room itself had only a single entry point and barely three desks albeit widely spaced apart but then it didn't need to support that many users. Giles had only ever encountered one other reader using the room, and even that was thirty years ago when an old man in a forgotten suit had eyed Giles' entrance suspiciously, but then quickly resumed his research, clearly indicating that decorum regarding privacy was to be respected even amongst those who had equal access to the treasures brought up from the darkest of vaults. These days, Kings, Chancellors and Watchers being a bit thin on the ground, Giles had the place to himself, and that suited him just fine.

Unlike other library reading rooms, there were no actual books stored there, not even for show. A dark oak panelling with hunting scenes, hugged the walls, its Tudor origins sitting effortlessly with twentieth century mouldings and art deco electric lights. Reading materials were requested in advance and brought to one's desk by a trusted librarian who treated every delivery with equal reverence, requiring only a signature on a clipboard and returning a respectful nod. Giles' current research was in truth, rather mundane and hardly merited the seclusion, but he was enjoying the pleasure of his self-imposed project and returning to Oxford had put him in touch with some of his happier memories of his time there. Working alone in St Catherine's was a big part of that.

He was hip-deep in cross-referencing the accounts of a colourful fourteenth century Irish nun against a copy of 'Lives of the Saints' on his MacBook Pro when the door to his sanctuary opened and a young woman, whom Giles took to be a librarian, approached him carrying a large hide-bound book and a regulation clipboard.

"Dr Rupert Giles?"

He nodded innocently and she dropped the book on the desk in front of him causing Giles to physically recoil as the scent of magick smarted in his throat. He didn't need to read the title to know this was a rather special volume. Someone had taken the precaution of 'charming' it so it could sit on shelves and allow itself to be discretely overlooked. On a dangerous scale of 1 to 10, it was probably a 4 but Giles was nevertheless angry at having it thrust at him.

"I didn't request this."

"I know, but there's a passage I need your help translating." She made to open to a bookmark but Giles stopped her hand.

"No, there's been some sort of mistake. I'm not on staff here and I don't assist on individual thesis work. I suggest you find someone else. "

She took her hand from his restraint but made no further attempt to open the volume, instead she looked at him thoughtfully.

"This is something of a niche research project and there isn't anyone else here on campus that can help me." Giles opened his mouth to begin another polite refusal but she cut him off harshly. "I know who you are, Dr Giles, and why you are here. I'm also well aware of your mental breakdown and the limits currently imposed on your teaching commitments. I wouldn't be asking if it weren't of the utmost importance."

The snap in her voice piqued him. "I've retired," he argued. "I don't do this type of thing anymore."

She looked at him with disbelieving, hard eyes and spoke again. "Really? Because in the past two days you've consulted heavily on a number of works on saints and female warrior figures in medieval Europe."

"That's… entirely different. I'm looking into historical facts not…" he broke off, looking at the book.

"Mere prophecies?" she supplied. "And what do you hope to gain from your research? Do you foresee some sort of academic paper coming out? A treatise on how the Sisters of the Magdalene fought off a gang of vampires in 1392 but had to stake their Bishop through the heart in the process? I can't wait to hear you deliver that lecture in the Union. We could have a sweepstake to see how quickly the men in the white coats come to take you off to the loony bin." She paused before adding "Again." for dramatic emphasis.

Giles folded his arms, resentful at the bullying. "Leave me alone."

"I will, but I'm leaving this book with you." She signed the clipboard and Giles recognised the correct paperwork. "It's officially with you now."

"You can't sign on my behalf," he spluttered.

"I've been practicing, so yes I can. Honestly, please just take a look at the passage I've marked. You can decide what to do about it after you've read it. I'm confident you will see how important it is and that it benefits you to assist me. I'll be back in two hours, Dr Giles."

She spun on her heels, leaving him almost as soon as she'd surprised him.

"I notice I didn't catch your name," he taunted after her.

"I know you can do this for me," she replied as she closed the main door and left him alone.

Giles glared at the book like it might turn into a cobra and strike him. Within the protocols of the reading room, he was trapped with the damn thing. He couldn't just get up and leave it on the desk for anyone else to view. All books signed out had to be signed back in – even if she'd faked his signature – and he sensed that particular sheet would not be put in the head librarian's office in the next two hours to allow him to make an escape. He couldn't afford the fuss of a book of this nature being left unattended or going astray whilst technically in his possession.

Giles stood and paced a little, working through his thoughts. He'd assumed she had legitimate access to the reading room, but again, she might have just been resourceful? He'd assumed she was a member of staff but then again, might that not be the case? But no, she knew the distinctive procedures, she knew what materials he'd read from the regular library, and she'd gotten hold of that damn book for a start, even Giles didn't know where the Sensitive Collection material was physically stored. She'd known all about him, all about his academic probation, all about his 'specialist' knowledge. She'd known too damn much altogether.

He sat back on his chair and slumped his chin on one hand on the desk. Had she mentioned Buffy, it would have been easier, because that was something he could have verified. He could have asked Buffy if she had sanctioned this approach and then castigated her soundly for it. But Buffy's name hadn't come up, and Giles wasn't about to look stupid by phoning her to ask. No, his best course of action was to ignore the book and resume his legitimate research interests. He picked up his fourteenth century nun again, and tried to rekindle the pleasure of losing himself in research but the words only swam meaninglessly past him. His pushy librarian friend had stung a victory when she'd argued the lack of a legitimate end product to his work. Sadly, he knew that identifying maybe three historical figures who might have been Slayers was of no interest to anyone. The Council of Watchers' Library had held all that information before it was destroyed and he could never hope to replace the wealth of knowledge that had been lost. Not that anyone but him cared these days. Intellectual curiosity or not, his work on the subject suddenly seemed completely futile.

Damn, in the end, she was right and there was really only one thing he could do. One research project being very like another, Giles lifted the volume of prophecies onto the book-rest in front of him and turned to the bookmarked section. After all, what was the worst that could happen? 


	27. Lightning Strikes

**Lightning Strikes**

"And I must caution you that you do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something which you later rely on in Court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?"

Giles looked wearily across the interview table at Detective Constable Paula Stephens. There had been a great deal of ceremony in loading a new brand cassette tape in the machine and announcing the full names of Giles, herself and her colleague Detective Hasan as being the only people present at that date and time. It was four o'clock in the morning and Giles just wanted to go home for a long shower, but after several courteous, yet mildly intimidating, hours spent 'assisting the police with their enquiries', the arrival of the two detectives seemed to signal they were upping their game.

"Do you understand, sir?" she repeated, to which Giles nodded, but Stephens wasn't satisfied. "For the audio tape if you please," she prompted.

"Oh, sorry, yes." Giles leant forward and addressed the tape recorder very deliberately. "Yes, I understand." He sat back in his chair. "Does this mean I'm under arrest?"

"No, Rupert," Detective Hasan cut in briskly, "Not at the present. The caution is just a necessary formality as we are recording this interview."

Stephens gave a stereotypically reassuring smile. "Don't look so worried, Dr Giles. We just want a formal statement about what happened. It's just to clear up a few ambiguities. I'm sure you appreciate the gravity of the circumstances mean we all want to get this straightened out as quickly as possible."

Giles removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "Should I have a lawyer present?"

"That's certainly your right, sir," Stephens stressed. "But lawyers can be quite expensive, especially if there is really nothing for them to do and we can clear this whole matter up between ourselves, _discretely_."

"We just want to understand what happened last night," Hasan added, looking through a manila file of notes. "You told the uniformed officers you had gone out for a walk? In your own words, can you tell us everything that happened?"

Giles privately doubted they'd have enough tape to record everything that had happened. He was tired and shaken by the events and though the police had been treating him with the utmost respect since they'd picked him up, he really just wanted to go home to bed.

"You had gone for a walk?" prompted Hasan as Stephens sat back in her chair, apparently leaving all the questions to her partner.

"Yes," Giles replied, wondering if 'good cop, bad cop' was a universal thing across all cultures, or just those that had cable TV?

"Where?"

"Nowhere in particular really."

Hasan persisted. "You were observed going past St Mary's church and up onto the heath. Would you know what time that was?"

"I don't know. Late-ish, I suppose."

"Are you in the habit of taking 'late-ish' 'no-where in particular' walks at night?"

Giles thought about it earnestly. "Actually, yes."

"The officers who responded to the 999 call, reported that they found you at 23:10."

Giles decided that as that was more of a statement than a question, he didn't need to respond.

"Isn't that really very 'late-ish' for a walk?" Hasan asked with heavy sarcasm.

Giles shrugged. "I've always been a bit of a night owl. What can I say?"

But light comedy wasn't really cutting it with either of his interrogators. Stephens was looking impassive and Hasan gave him a very cold smile.

"Well, Rupert," he countered. "You could start by saying exactly what happened once you got up onto the heath."

As he couldn't really duck the issue much longer, Giles took a basic swing at some of the facts.

"It was a clear night with good visibility so I explored for a little while and then went up to the Neolithic stone circle - the Singing Stones it's called - and that's where I found her."

Hasan's manila folder contained a number of glossy photos of the crime scene which he laboriously spread out in on the table facing Giles, positioning the girl's face centrally. Her open eyes looked up at him accusingly but Giles ignored them and continued his summary.

"I called for an ambulance and the um, police naturally, and then I waited." There was no reason to mention the frantic call to Buffy's voicemail.

"Did you see anyone else up there?"

"No. Not another soul." That at least, was true.

"No one or no thing suspicious?"

Giles shook his head then leant forward for the benefit of the tape recorder. "No. I did not."

"And you are certain she was dead when you found her?"

"Oh yes, quite. She was cold to the touch." Again, another truth.

"And how exactly did you know her?"

Giles folded his arms and looked cautiously at both of them. "I don't believe I said I did."

Stephens jumped in. "Let me stop you there, Dr Giles. You see, that sort of thing doesn't help. Not in the long run." She smiled as if he were a slow child and adopted a soft tone in her voice. "Because obviously you did know her, and that's not something you'd want to deny now and have challenged later in court. You can see how that would look bad to a jury?"

Her colleague added coldly, "We have a witness that saw both you and the victim, walking past St Mary's church and heading up onto the heath at around 9:30, that's some two hours earlier. How do you account for that?"

He didn't particularly want to but also wondered if he really needed to. Rubbing his hands together, Giles straightened them as if in prayer and rested his chin on the tips. He didn't have to account for mythical witnesses if he didn't want to.

"Of course," began Stephens. "There may be reasons you don't want to admit it to knowing her, perhaps it's a little embarrassing, why you were with her, but we've seen it all before. There is literally nothing you can tell us that would shock us."

He couldn't stop himself from barking out a short laugh. These detectives were no more than thirty-five years a piece, and even if they'd witnessed numerous horrors of police life, there was no way he could explain the supernatural terrors of his previous evening to them without a degree of shock.

Hasan grew impatient. "Let's start again at the very beginning again. What was her name?"

"I don't know. I never set eyes on her before yesterday," he stated truthfully. They had no evidence and would have to prove things, and Buffy would hopefully pick up her damn phone before custody sergeants and magistrates became involved.

"You're a lecturer in college. Was she one of your students perhaps?"

"No. I know all of my students and she wasn't one of them."

Stephens produced a sturdy plastic evidence bag from under the table and laid the tagged hunting knife down for inspection. Giles winced as he recognised it and immediately loathed the fact that both officers had registered him doing so.

"Is this yours?" she asked sweetly.

"No."

"Are we going to find your fingerprints on it?"

That was quite a moot point as he couldn't remember and Giles began to wonder if his best strategy were to actually deploy his right to silence. He'd certainly forgotten about that bloody knife in all the excitement and of course they were going to find it. God knows what they were imagining him capable of.

"Are you reluctant to answer because you're not sure or because you are hoping any prints will be too smudged for a positive match?"

Giles risked a sarcastic glare at the younger man but the policeman grinned and talked to his colleague as it were only the two of them.

"I think that might actually be an ivory handle, Paula. It's a beautiful thing isn't it? I doubt that, once handled, anyone could forget a knife like that."

"Did you find any knife wounds?" Giles retorted, with a degree of triumph he immediately regretted as they swooped on the implications of his question.

"We've yet to receive the medical report, but you however, know there were no knife wounds? That's very interesting. Do you have any further insights as to the cause of her death?"

"Oh well," Giles bluffed. "At the time I wondered if she'd been struck by lightning."

"Struck by lightning?" Hasan repeated incredulously.

"Interesting you should say that, sir. There were reports of sudden strange lights, noises and a mysterious fire raging across the heath."

"There you are then."

"Except there was no storm last night. And certainly no fire. The officers who attended didn't find any evidence of anything burning at all."

"Did you see any strange lights or some kind of fire when you were up there with her, Rupert?"

Giles ignored the suggestion. "Not when I was there on my own, no, not now you mention it."

"And yet you think she might have been struck by lightning?"

"Or maybe not. I don't know. I could tell she was dead but I'm not a medical doctor. I was in shock but I managed to call the police straight away. I don't think all this is necessary."

"I understand, sir. It must have been quite traumatic for you, especially in a tragedy like this. Finding a dead body can be very upsetting. Though I gather it's not the first time that has happened to you, is it? When you resided in Sunnydale, California, you also found the body of a Miss Jennifer Calendar. That was another shocking business by all accounts. Where was it you found her body?"

They'd done their homework and he hated it. He hadn't thought about Jenny in years and hearing her name brought a flood of guilt at how he'd neglected her memory. _Climbing the stairs, seeing her and grinning. Then seeing her lifeless eyes, the eyes that said you didn't protect me. At least that time he'd remember to close them before calling the police._

"Your own bed wasn't it, Rupert?" Hasan stressed, clearly enjoying the discomfort he was causing. "And they say lightning never strikes twice."

He was in a police station and waiting for Buffy. _Focus, old man, focus._ Having a blackout in front of police officers was not likely to get him a ride home and an apology from the Chief Constable.

"It's really not the same thing," he mumbled.

"We don't know that. Tell us what really happened last night."

"Lightning…"

Hasan's voice grew formal. "Can you confirm that you are the same Rupert Giles that was released six weeks ago having been detained under the Mental Health Act of 1983?"

"Eh?"

"Sir?" Stephens' voice was concerned. "Are you alright, sir?"

_Angelus smiled at him. Enjoying his pain. Taunting him that Buffy wouldn't come for him when that had been the secret he'd been holding out for. That or death. And she hadn't come. He'd lost the game of chess and she hadn't come. She wasn't coming now either._

But now was another beast entirely, and now, as Dr Daniels had taught him, was something to be tamed. Giles blinked, regulated his breathing and felt the coldness of the table under his palms as he pulled the faces of the detectives back into focus with supreme effort.

"I was detained for depression," he specified slowly. "I'm not some knife-wielding serial killer."

"Of course not, sir. I'm just checking the facts of your situation with you."

"My situation?" Giles looked at her.

"Until we get a cause of death we have to consider every option. You yourself said there was no-one else up on the heath. And at the moment your refusal to admit knowing the girl is creating an atmosphere of mistrust that isn't helping. We only want to understand what happened. How did the girl die?"

"I don't know." He was tired of talking to these people and saying nothing.

"Why did you choose to walk to such a remote spot as the Singing Stones? Did she ask you to accompany her?"

In the circumstances, Giles found that terribly funny, though Detective Hasan didn't.

"You were seen with her, two hours previously, walking up to the heath. And by someone who knew you, not some vague description from a stranger, so there really isn't any point denying that any further."

The female detective tried her soothing tone again.

"Maybe she went on ahead and you were supposed to meet her at the stone circle?" she suggested. "And did something happen to her instead? Something awful that you couldn't prevent? Something you hadn't expected?"

"She was cold when I found her," he re-iterated because they couldn't refute that and Giles knew the moment he'd touched her cheek, that it was going to play havoc with estimates on time of death. It was why he'd called the police, and why they in turn, hadn't been able to outright charge him with anything just yet.

"Perhaps she was someone you met in the hospital?" Stephens continued, ignoring the cornerstone of his defence. "Someone who also had a history of depression? That might explain everything. Perhaps you were trying to help her, to talk her down? That's certainly nothing to be ashamed of. Often people pick remote, sometimes romantic places. Especially around here."

Giles found a dulled voice. "You think she committed suicide?"

"I blame the Brontës," her partner chipped in. "Every Cathy wants her Heathcliff at her side. Especially at the end."

His brain worked through the policeman's inference. "And you think I helped her in some way?"

"Did you?"

"If she was hurting and it was what she wanted..." Stephens was back being his friend. "And then also, maybe it was something you thought you wanted as well? It's completely understandable if you changed your mind. In fact, it's a positive thing really. Good for you."

The door to the room unexpectedly flew open and a uniformed inspector strode in, announcing, "Interview terminated at 7:15 by Inspector Fourcade." He hit stop on the recording machine and pulled the tape out. Both detectives rose in surprise.

"Sir?"

"Bag it and seal it, Stephens. It's out of our hands now. We've been invaded by the bloody army."

"Sir?"

"The Spook Squad have taken over the crime scene, citing the Official Secrets Act and imposing a Media blackout. Some Captain Appleby or other in charge. He's asked for everything to be handed over to them." He jabbed an angry finger towards Giles. "Including him." With that, Fourcade left as abruptly as he'd entered, his pride clearly hurt at the usurpation of the county's juiciest murder case in years.

Hasan considered their former chief suspect with malicious amusement. "There now, see the trouble you've caused?" he chided. "You should have confided in us, Rupert, when you had the chance."

And Giles, with a sinking feeling, wasn't entirely sure he disagreed.


	28. In the Blood

**In the Blood**

It was technically two and a quarter hours when she returned to St Catherine's, but Giles was too busy to notice the slight discrepancy of her promise. He'd taken over all three study tables and assembled a vast array of manuscripts and library materials that were balanced, to the inexperienced eye, in a completely haphazard fashion with open books acting as page markers to other open books and maps and scrolls weighted at curling corners by closed, evidently discarded, volumes.

"I'm impressed," the girl declared, after Giles, having grunted at her arrival, resumed his intense flitting from book to book. "Not least because you're not supposed to have this many books out at a time."

He made no reply whatsoever and she stood for a whole minute, wondering if he'd already forgotten she was there. She thought he had the appearance of a man who wasn't even capable of sitting down anymore.

She added, "Unless this is some kind of breakdown and you are building a fort?"

"Mmm?" He stopped and ran his hands through his hair. "I don't have everything I need. The 'Reverend Pilger's Travel Diaries of the 1860's' would be most useful." He swooped under three tan skinned volumes to pull out a notebook and pencil. Tearing off the top sheet, he rounded the table and proffered it to her. "The other staff can't seem to find these, but you seem to be resourceful."

She looked at the names thoughtfully. "I take it you found something of interest in the passage I asked you to translate?"

"Mmm? Oh yes. It's a conjecture on the feasibility of maintaining large scale protection spells. And it cites the example of my own university town." He stopped suddenly and tilted his head at her shrewdly. "But then of course, you already knew that."

There was little point denying it so she didn't: "I suspected there was a reference."

"Why did you ask me to look at it?"

"You're the only Watcher I know who uses this library," she responded baldly.

Giles grimaced. "I've retired."

"And also because you already know your town is protected from demons entering it. Otherwise you wouldn't have chosen to hide there."

"Actually," he began, climbing on his highest horse, she thought, whilst simultaneously pulling out a handkerchief to clean his glasses. "I only found out about its unique position after I'd taken the job. It wasn't something I…" He broke off, replacing his glasses quickly as something on a vellum scroll caught his attention.

"If you say so," she answered sardonically, but she was back to competing with the books again as Giles turned his back on her and rushed back around the furthest study table. "Anyway, you know about this sort of stuff," she continued. "My great-great-uncle did too. He was a Watcher, albeit briefly, and I've often wondered if it's in the blood."

"I'm really not the best person to help you with any sort of apprenticeship deal," he muttered absently.

"That's not what I have in mind." She followed him and provocatively tugged open a book from his discard pile. "Alright, I give up. What is all this?"

"Ah." Taking the book from her, he briefly beamed at her interest and his own accomplishment. "If my calculations are correct, I think the spell that maintains the protection wards is at risk of collapse."

"Wow," she said, genuinely impressed. "That's…Wow."

"Quite." Giles seemed to realise his happiness was inappropriate and checked it. "Obviously that would be catastrophic."

"You've only had two hours!"

Interpreting her incredulity at the timescale as mistrust in his results, Giles impulsively took her hand and led her to a table of maps, stabbing his finger at the contour lines under which nestled a street plan of his place of work.

"It seems to emanate from the Neolithic stone circle up on the heath, outside of the town."

She peered down carefully and read aloud the name of 'The Singing Stones' as Giles continued. "Which means it's incredibly old magicks. Something that pre-dates the building of the university, and everything bar the earliest settlement. Which makes a lot of sense actually." He took his glasses off and waved a circle over the chart. "Find somewhere that already has wards safeguarding a geographic area and throw up a town under its protection. And what better place to educate and keep safe the privileged young of rich merchants and barons than somewhere they won't get picked off by the undead?"

"The rewards of privilege?" she offered, and Giles nodded vigorously and began to lightly chew one stem of his glasses. "Alright, I'm sold on the history, but so what?"

"Prehistoric magicks of this scale are not self-supporting, they require periodic replenishment."

Wow, she thought again. He really had covered an awful lot of ground in two hours. She'd heard tales of Watchers, but she really hadn't expected this level of efficiency. It was almost a shame but no, she hardened her heart.

"And you think this one is due a top up?"

"I do. There are several accounts of periodic geological disturbances in the region over the centuries, and look at this." He was bustling again around the tables and dragging his MacBook Pro from under a pile of papers so she waited patiently until he found what he needed on the internet.

"Something is happening," he declared and shared his screen as if that were the key. On it she saw a confusing collection of tables of numbers and graphs that were labeled as data from the University's Geology department, monitoring the heathland outside his town. "They have been registering very small tremors for the past two months," he explained. "Miniscule really, but on the increase nevertheless.

"It doesn't look like much. How can you be sure?"

"Contrary to expectations, when the earth starts to move, it's never a good sign. The town is not on any mapped fault or tectonic stress line and importantly, this has happened several times before." He put down the laptop and found a diary to read out. "There's an account from the sixteenth century of the stones ' _taking voice until'_ , here we are, yes." He used a finger to trace the text. "' _Until a party of the learned visited the spot and quelled the disquiet.'_ "

"How?" That was the million dollar question and she held her breath. Giles sheepishly dropped the diary and pushed his hands in his pockets.

"That I haven't actually found out yet," he confessed. "But if you really are serious about helping me, we might be able to deduce it together."

She regarded his earnestness thoughtfully as if considering his offer. With this research, he'd transformed into a different man from the one she'd spotted in previous visits to the Bodleian. That Dr Giles had been a quiet, gloomy and depressed visiting academic who probably hadn't ever noticed her interest in him. Whereas this one, well, this one was indeed a Watcher, and that was exactly what she needed him to be. She just needed one further test to judge his commitment.

"Is this really all that important?" she asked. "I mean, what happens if you just let the spell collapse?"

"That would be unthinkable! It would mean a town that has barred demons for thousands of years will become open for business, and I'd be putting a young population, who have no idea of the risks, in grave danger. It would be a complete massacre." He paused and his eyes glimmered. "I cannot let that happen."

"No matter what the cost?" she pursued.

"At _any_ cost."

She couldn't help but smile at the adamancy of his answer.

"Now, if you work here, then work here," he commanded. "Fetch me what materials you can find from that list. Especially the Pilger." Having dismissed her to role of assistant, Giles turned his back on her again and fussed back to his old manuscripts. If the girl grated at his rudeness, she consoled herself at the thought that there would be very little she would produce for him from the list.

"Sure. I'll see what I can do to help you. Once a Watcher, always a Watcher, eh?" she teased as she retreated out the library door. "I guess we're going to see if it's in the blood after all."


	29. The Singing Stones

**The Singing Stones**

It took some time to climb the heath and they did so in silence. The night air was mild for the time of year and Giles was grateful for the full moon and the light it afforded, but even so, their progress was checked by loose footings and the occasional stumble. It wasn't a particularly exerting climb, but Giles was certainly sweating freely by the time they reached the perimeter of the stone circle and he stopped outside and took a moment to calm his shaking hands by drinking from the bottle of Evian mineral water he'd carried up in his jacket pocket. The shaking wasn't entirely due to the exertion, he was, after all, about to dabble with incredibly ancient magicks; magicks that predated the Council's archives, the written word, and probably even a vocal language that anyone in thousands of years had uttered. And yet somehow, here he was, about to interact with a breath-taking power, the depths of which went far beyond his comprehension. It was incredibly humbling and yet, he conceded in a dark smile, it also gave him the familiar, arrogant little rush he'd loved since his days as Ripper.

The seven stones in front of him had been weathered and gnarled down to between two and five feet in height and looked ominously hunched in expectation at his approach. There was a silence in the night air which seemed profound and yet almost profane, and Giles swallowed more water nervously, spinning out the seconds before he had to enter the circle and commit to the course of action. His companion from the Bodleian, the instigator of this whole expedition, showed no such hesitation and, declining the offer of water, took Giles by the sleeve and strode the both of them confidently into the centre of the circle. Once inside, the atmosphere changed sharply as the clear sky gave way to a perfect canopy of grey cloud and the temperature fell ten degrees, but most noticeable was the noise as each stone seemed to be emitting a different pitched hum, creating an eerie tonal drone that eddied and darted around them. To Giles it felt like a sound that could pick his pockets and read his soul.

"They know we're here," he said quietly.

"Yes." The girl looked around in a measured awe. "They've been waiting for us." She switched her gaze shrewdly to his trembling hands. "How are you feeling?"

"I'd feel a lot better if I knew the full extent of this spell," he admitted. The earlier confidence of the library research deserted him as he mused he'd only really gotten scraps of information of the full outcome of the spell. For all he knew he was about to get the both of them killed. "You might be safer waiting outside the circle while I do this," he suggested. "Once I start , we have to see it through to the end."

"I'm happy to watch the Watcher do his stuff." She sat contently on the ground, palms back, legs straight with feet crossed, as if they were about to open a summer's picnic hamper rather than tackle dark primeval forces. "I have every confidence in you."

Giles grunted and approached the smallest of the seven stone. Positioning himself as a direct radius to the centre, he poured some of the water on his left hand to cleanse it.

"Er, I thought you needed holy water?" the girl called out.

"This is holy water," Giles explained over his shoulder, shaking off some of the drops. "I get the chaplain in college to bless it for me as a six-pack."

She laughed and said, "Does he think you're nuts?"

"Possibly, but Priests know better than to ask."

Giles reached his hand out to the first stone. The blessing of water to help drive out demons pre-dated Christianity and what little he'd learnt implied the stones sang because they were dry and in need of nourishment. A sharp, almost magnetic, tug pulled his hand the last few inches and he gasped as he felt the warmth of the rock as it seemed to act like a sponge and absorb his fingers. As he let go, the stone's discordant high pitch squeal meekly subsided and Giles permitted himself a smile at his apparent success.

"Now the rest," the girl commanded, and Giles moved almost dreamily to the next stone and took up position. The reaction of the second stone was a little stronger. Giles felt more of a jolt on first contact and it required more effort to pull away but its resonance and singing stopped just as completely as the first.

He continued around the circle, and the unearthly choir dropped in tone as the smaller stones and higher pitches were cleansed. The results were satisfying but Giles began to find the pull of each stone harder to resist and his teeth seemed to be permanently gritted as he battled the sensations that tugged at his mind and body. Finally, only the largest stone remained; a huge brooding baritone of around five foot high and three wide that seemed to be contemplating Giles as much as he contemplated it.

"It's as if they are alive," he observed.

"You have to finish the ritual," the girl called, somewhat unsympathetically. "You said so yourself."

"Yes." Giles braced his footing, poured the last of the water on his hand and reached out. He was nervous for the familiar jolt but it never came. Instead, the stone made no resistance to his contact but the low bass noise it had hummed still stopped abruptly in compliance to his touch. Everywhere was a beautiful silence.

Giles allowed himself another small smile and muttered, "Well, that was easy."

Seven years on a Hellmouth really should have taught him something. Because barely had the complacency left his mouth when all of the stones appeared to rise up out of the ground and unleash an ear-splitting cacophony of protest that physically spilled Giles, via a backwards roll, towards the middle of the circle. Briefly disorientated and flat on his back, he pushed his hands into spongy earth and felt the top soil seemingly strip away, sinking him lower. Blinking his eyes open in panic, he saw viciously dark storm clouds overhead, swooping together at improbable speed, but as he tried to scrabble himself up and look for his companion, the stones screamed again, with a sound that seemed to wrap itself around his nervous system and jolt him effortlessly back to the sinking earth again.

"We have to get out of here. Right now," he spluttered, rolling, crawling and dragging himself to at least all fours.

"No." Her voice seemed oddly calm. "Like you said, you need to stay and see the ritual to the very end."

"What ' _very end'_? There's no ritual left. That's all I had." He was angry she didn't seem to understand the danger they were both in, and angry with himself for putting them in this situation, but when he twisted to see her face, he was at first relieved to find she was kneeling in the comparative calm of the very centre of the circle, but then horrified to see she was holding the business end of a sharp hunting knife.

"What?" she chided. "You didn't imagine sprinkling a little holy water was all that was needed, did you?"

"I rather fucking did, yes!" he spat in exasperation. His father had taught him never to swear in front of ladies but Giles felt the circumstances warranted a bloody great exception to that arcane rule. "What the hell is going on?"

"Don't worry; we are going to sustain the protection spell, you and I. We are going to protect the town and the students." As she spoke the loose top soil began to ricochet around Giles' head, forcing him to duck his eyes. "It's just going to take a little more commitment on your part than you had realised."

Bugger that for a game of soldiers, he thought, and lumbered up determinedly, stumbling as the earth filled the air around him unnaturally, he blundered towards a gap in the stones. But he got no more than two feet away when the stones shrieked their disapproval and huge blue arcs of electricity surged between the uprights and blocked his exit. Giles covered his eyes as best he could and turned back to the girl.

"What is this, what's happening?" he shouted, as the wind continued to whip around and small stones battered against him.

"I'd heard about Watchers of course, but I was impressed in the library. You covered in a matter of hours, the research I took months to complete, but maybe it was a little churlish of me to keep one or two items I'd read, away from you."

"Now would be a good time to share."

She smiled at either his sarcasm or his futile efforts to brace himself against the whirling elements, and he found he didn't care which. At the centre of the circle, where she stood, Giles could see there was a relative calm and he risked a tentative couple steps nearer to minimise his exposure to the maelstrom that was whipping round the excited stones. They were shrieking in turns and in pairs and he was having a hard time concentrating and formulating any sort of plan. That he'd been incredibly stupid was obvious, but he really balked at the suggestion that this was to be the end of his life, and he wanted to avoid that outcome very badly indeed.

"Each of these stones has a human soul," she began.

"They are alive?" Giles was appalled but she pondered the question academically.

"Philosophically, that's probably debatable, but no, I don't mean it in that way. They each contain a human soul which they are slowly consuming, it is what sustains them in their task of maintaining the protection wards on the town down there. When a soul becomes too weak, they need another to be provided and they sing for a new voice to join them. Is it not a worthwhile price to pay for all those people down there?"

"One of us has to give up our soul?" Despite the onslaught of grit in his eyes, Giles gave her a significant glare. "Because if push comes to shove, I'm narrowing it down a lot further than that."

"You wouldn't and besides it has to be a Watcher. I'm sorry."

"Why?"

"I confess I kept from you the material that covers the 'Sacrifice of the Watchers'. I mentioned my great-great-uncle was a Watcher, didn't I? He's here, you see, in one of the stones. I really am sorry in a way, but not any soul will do. They only respect the lines of continuity. It needs to be a Watcher to replace what's left of my uncle's soul."

"This magick is older than the concept of Watchers. I can't see how they can make a distinction. Not to mention," he added, with courage born of a great deal of indignation, "I've bloody well retired from being a Watcher!"

"Great magicks always require commiserate sacrifice. You know this of old. What was that boy's name? Randall? The one you and your friend killed for your perverse pleasures? He'd have been what, in his fifties now? Looking forward to grand-children? Maybe ones that would apply to the college down there? You yourself said we had to safeguard the town, whatever the cost."

He rose above the cheap taunt. "You want to preserve a protection spell by murdering me? What sort of twisted ethics is that?"

"No-one is murdering anyone." She laid down the knife with the handle facing him and stood serenely. "It's not that kind of sacrifice."

He approached carefully, wary of her retrieving the knife, but she remained still and allowed him to gain a measure of respite from the whirlwind, but the stones continued to call for him.

"I did my research on you," she said softly. "I know all about your expedition to flatten the already flat county of Norfolk and die a hero's death. Is this not an equally noble cause to die for?"

It probably was, but he wasn't in the mood to try it. The real dilemma he found himself considering was much harsher: was he prepared to kill for the town? Was he prepared to take a life to spare his own? What if there was no other way? She was human, no question, so there would be consequences to taking a human life especially in circumstances he couldn't explain to a judge and jury. And would it even do any good? Would it stop the stones calling for him? There had to be another solution. He opted to stall.

"I'd have preferred to have the element of choice about this," he suggested. "If you'd simply told me what was needed, I'd have listened."

"And meekly agreed to give your own life?" It was her turn to look incredulous. "You haven't made a single good decision about your life for the past thirty years so I couldn't risk it to chance."

"That's not true!"

The seven stones began to arc and wail in an intensity to match his anger.

"You are nothing that others haven't made of you," she continued. "I'm sorry, but you've been led by the nose through life since the day you were born. You've never amounted to anything on your own. Even your current house and job were arranged for you."

"That's not true." He felt his voice rising to block out the increasing singing from the circle. They seemed to be getting incredibly agitated.

"The Slayer arranged all that for you. You weren't experienced enough for that lecturing position! The Master of the college and his wife took you on as a favour to the Slayer, out of pity for what happened."

"That's not true," he repeated furiously. "I make my own decisions, and I'm not dying just because you want me to." He felt as if the stones were behind him now, crushing him forward.

"I don't know how you can live with yourself when there have been so many deaths laid at your feet." There was genuine pity in her voice and Giles hated it. "What's it like when every sorry decision you've ever made has cost the lives of others? Letting the vampire into the house, letting him kill your family. Did he make you watch?" She gestured to the knife on the ground. Do this thing and you can make a difference! Let this one decision be the one to make amends. Safeguard that town. Be at peace with yourself. It will be the most worthwhile thing you've ever done."

Giles felt the weight of a stone smash into his back, and he toppled forward and made for the knife. He felt heat and flame and a barbaric shrieking that wrapped around his skull and squeezed his brains. He heard a girl's laughter as he clutched his head in agony, then he felt, or possibly dreamt, an explosion bark from under him that seemed to rip the ground from under his feet. As the familiar old friend of unconsciousness took him, his last thoughts were of flying.


	30. Understanding

**Understanding**

It was daylight by the time the police Land Rover drove up the rutted track towards the heath, and Giles, from his less than advantageous viewing point of being wedged between two uniformed officers on the back seat, could nevertheless make out Scene of Crime tents and several army trailers and jeeps deployed around the megalithic circle known as the Singing Stones. Most ominously ahead though, were the two armed soldiers, rifle butts on their forearms, who had mounted a roadblock and were flagging them down to stop.

Inspector Fourcade left the Land Rover to talk to the soldiers, but Giles' escorts showed no intention of moving to let him stretch his legs, so he slumped back and wondered if it were possible to ever fall asleep again. It had been a long perilous night and, similar to his exploits in Norfolk, it looked increasingly likely to end with him being taken into custody by the military. The differences to that night rankled with him though and he felt a strong sense of injustice about his situation. That he had been naïve, stupid even, was incontrovertible, but he had not willing caused death, destruction or sought to injury himself, and that, he felt, ought to count for something.

One of the soldiers relayed a message on his headset as Fourcade flapped his arms to keep warm and stomped his feet impatiently. Giles wondered if Buffy had returned his calls and was waiting for him in one of the tents or trailers up ahead. Though they had been at pains to stress he was not under arrest, the police had relieved him of the contents of his pockets, his mobile phone being uppermost in his mind. If he could just get a chance to explain properly to Buffy what had happened, she would understand and call off the troops. He had to speak to Buffy and no-one else.

Three more soldiers approached down the track to speak with Fourcade and Giles' heart sank as he recognised one of them as Captain Ryan Appleby. The young officer was sporting both his full combat gear and the air of weary annoyance, last witnessed when his unit had felt compelled to taser Giles and detain him in Norfolk. Buffy had been a few hours behind him that night and hadn't been able to prevent him from having Giles sectioned under the Mental Health Act.

The roadblock tête-à-tête came to an end and Inspector Fourcade gestured and suddenly there was movement in the car and Giles was led out of the vehicle. He blinked sheepishly at Appleby who did not look happy to see him, but surprisingly, directed his displeasure towards the policeman.

"When you said you had an interesting suspect, Inspector, I thought you meant a little more interesting than my own man! Dr. Giles is part of my team. He works for me."

The soldiers on the roadblock took the news impassively, Giles was stunned to his shoelaces but Fourcade narrowed his eyes so challengingly he looked like he might pop a brain haemorrhage any minute.

He hissed, "That's not something he chose to mention."

But Appleby was dismissive.

"He's not obliged to."

"But in the circumstances..."

"No. In the circumstances, he answers to _me_. As do you, Inspector." Appleby then gave the man such a condescending look that Giles began to appreciate why one so young, had risen so far. "So thank you for returning him. That will be all." And he dismissed the policeman with a wave of his hand that caused the two soldiers accompanying him to stiffen slightly as if indicating they were prepared to engage in a firefight on the matter at the merest sniff of an order from their commanding officer.

Left with no options, Fourcade bitterly handed over his force's evidence bags and Giles' personal possessions, then slammed into his Land Rover and reversed backed away down the track. With a protesting squelch of mud to signify his ill will, the vehicle u-turned back towards the police station and sped out of sight.

Appleby gave a brief smirk and politely enquired, "How are you holding up there, Giles?"

"I-I don't work for you," Giles stammered, determined to clarify the position, terrified that if he had been conscripted then he would be bound by their rulings and courts.

Appleby replied amiably, "Ah, but he doesn't need to know that." And he gave the cache of Giles' possessions back to him.

Nervously stuffing the wallet and house keys in his pockets, Giles checked his phone. There were no messages.

"Is B-Buffy here?" he asked hopefully.

"No, she's in New Zealand," Appleby replied breezily as Giles' heart sank to his boots.

"But I need to talk to Buffy. Did she get my messages? Did she send you here?"

"I don't know about any messages to Buffy. We were already in the neighbourhood so to speak. Our tech people picked up on the geological disturbances so we'd become concerned. _Luckily_ , as it turned out."

He began walking away from the roadblock to climb up to the heath and his two escorting soldiers gestured for Giles to follow him. But despite their compelling manner, Giles took off his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose and otherwise stand his ground. He was tired and hungry and he had a childish sensation that leaving the roadside meant surrendering away his freedom.

Appleby returned and gave him a thoughtful look.

"We're giving out the statement that the girl was killed by a freak lightning strike and as the police didn't get time enough to raise any formal charges or court dates, and there has been no other publicity, the matter is closed to the public glare."

"I wasn't…I didn't…" Giles tried to begin.

"Who was she?"

"I don't know. She never told me her name." Giles swallowed hard. He'd been so wrapped up in the books he'd barely taken an interest in the girl. He couldn't now describe her appearance or her voice and berated himself for the lapse. Had he paid more attention, she might not have been able to trick him so easily. "She just approached me in the Bodleian library with a small research project," he added rapidly. "I didn't get her name."

Appleby looked incredulous. "All this started out as a small research project?"

"It took an unexpectedly practical turn," Giles replied weakly. "She said she had a great-great-uncle who was a Watcher. Oh! So we might be able to trace her that way if enough of the old council records survive. I think there's a repository in a salt mine in..." He broke off, feeling stupid at his babbling and self-conscious that he'd overlooked something rather obvious. "Though she seemed to work at the Bodleian, so that's probably an easier place to start."

Appleby agreed and dispatched the two escorting soldiers with the new line of enquiry before turning back to Giles and regarding him not unsympathetically.

"You look about done in. When did you last eat or sleep?"

"I had breakfast yesterday." He immediately felt foolishly defensive about the fact and sighed. "But I didn't get any sleep at the police station. There was a lot of hanging around and waiting, and then when I did close my eyes, they always seemed to have more questions."

"Save us from Parochial plods and their little power games!" Appleby shook his head. "Oh, salt of the earth, I'm sure, but the way they have been going on, anyone would think I was spearheading an invasion to overthrow the democratically elected town council."

The outburst amused Giles who responded, "I don't suppose they get a lot of the supernatural in these parts."

"Now there's an irony," replied Appleby meaningfully. "Do you know, Giles, I've even had the Chief Constable on the phone, trying to explain how it was really just some murder-suicide pact gone wrong."

"Given she tried to murder me and ending up losing her own life, it sort of was."

"Big night for irony then," the soldier said thoughtfully.

…

They sat in the army's canteen trailer and Giles, whilst demolishing two bacon and egg sandwiches and three mugs of tea, went through his story, leaving nothing out.

"When I came to, I had been thrown some fifteen feet away from the circle. I picked myself and walked back inside and it was all completely calm as if nothing had happened there at all. Except for her body, of course." He drained the last of his tea. "There were no marks or signs of any injury on her. I felt for a pulse but she was unnaturally cold, like stone, and undeniably dead. I panicked a little at first. I thought about moving the body hiding it, or even burying it but of course that would've just made things worse. She was human after all, she was going to be missed and she was going to be linked to me. So I decided I should call the police and say I had just discovered her. They wouldn't like it but her body temperature would give me an alibi as it suggested a time of death many hours earlier."

Appleby nodded.

"I don't know why she was so cold," Giles mused. "I'm guessing the stones took everything from her. But I don't understand what happened. Why they took her and not me."

"She suggested they needed a willing sacrifice."

"Exactly! I mean, I was angry and I was damn well not going to lay down and die for anyone, but I don't think she was exactly expecting to either…" He ran a hand through his hair. "I, I don't think I did anything to deflect them or get her killed or anything... I was just suddenly thrown out of the circle and she wasn't."

"We've got a couple of researchers working on it in the Command trailer. They've been just dying to say hello."

…

They walked to the other trailer and Giles was surprised when Appleby dug out his wallet and proffered an old fashioned business card.

"I'm glad to see you're too stubborn to die," he explained. "Next time though, call me first, not the police."

Giles took the card warily. Despite the fistful of international contact numbers, it innocuously promoted 'Ryan's Home Improvement Services. No job too small. Free quotations.'

"It pays to be a bit cloak and dagger," the soldier explained. "Though if you accidentally call about a plumbing leak, don't be too surprised if we turn up in a tank." He made to go and leave Giles on his own at the trailer door.

"Wait. So what happens next? To me?"

"When you're done with the books?" Appleby shrugged. "Come and find me and I'll arrange a lift home for you."

Giles managed a smile. "I don't work for you."

"That doesn't matter," the younger man said affably and nodded at the business card. "You can still call me."

…

The Command Trailer was so dominated by books and old manuscripts that Giles felt like he'd walked into a mobile library. A central table was filled with research and ran the whole length up to a further portioned door. The far long wall was a complete windowless whiteboard with papers pinned by magnetics and scrawled hand-written notes and arrows with a penmanship that looked familiar. Giles called out a 'hello' to the far room, and marvelled that all in all, it was an incredibly impressive assemblage of materials for such a short amount of time.

The portioned door opened and suddenly Xander Harris stood before him. Giles blinked and waited for the familiar lopsided grin to break out, but he'd forgotten that Xander was older now, and wore his hair shorter and was generally more serious than the good hearted High School clown he'd first met. Giles remembered the day he'd replaced the eye-patch with a glass eye because he 'no longer wanted to look like a comic book hero' and was 'sick of the pitying looks' it evoked. Giles had been proud of the decision though he'd found looking at the new static eye quite disconcerting for a time.

"Xander," he said awkwardly. A smile came then from the younger man.

"You have to stop doing this, man."

"I don't entirely disagree with that."

Xander rounded the table quickly and pulled him into a tight hug. Giles felt his strength and sense of protection and allowed himself to melt into his young friend. They had not seen each other in almost a year and had not parted on the best of terms. But being held, Giles regretted his harsh words of the past.

The trailer door opened behind. Smiling, he recognised Willow's step and presence before she even made contact and flung herself at his back.

"Giles!" Her arms were round him and her face pressed and knotted his jacket.

"Yes. Um, hello."

"We have to get you a better doctor," she mumbled into the fabric.

"Oh I'm fine, not even a lasting concussion this time," he deflected lightly.

She pulled back sharply, breaking all the hugs and pulled his shoulder to look him in the eyes.

"You had another blackout?"

"I'm fine."

"Giles, you are not fine. Look at me, you are not fine." Her voice was quite fierce with concern and he found it disconcerting to be on the receiving end of something both touching and yet mildly threatening. He broke free and busied himself looking through their research materials.

"I must say you've done jolly well to gather all these resources in such a short space of time."

"We've had a lot of practice," Xander said evenly and folded his arms.

Giles looked past him and caught some handwriting on the whiteboard.

"What's that -' _And they took the Watcher to the stones. And the stones took the Watcher.'_?"

Xander turned to look. "What? Oh that? That's from some travelling preacher guy in the 19th century." He fumbled for the book, flicked to the bookmarked page and handed it across. "This guy."

"Giles," Willow interrupted softly. "We need to talk about what happened."

"Certainly. In a minute."

He was perhaps dimly aware that his friends exchanged a look, but Giles sat and closed his mind off from everything but his reading. The language was flowery; the subtext, a sanctimonious tract on perils of a pagan countryside, but the passage Xander had found was a crucial eye-witness account of a previous sacrifice to quell the Singing Stones. The author had hidden and observed as a group of Scholarly Men had performed a ritual to cleanse each stone and then withdrew, leaving only the youngest of their number in the centre. The author had been discovered and had run off but returned an hour later to find the young man dead, ' _and of such coldness that could not be holy.'_ He learnt the Scholarly Men called themselves Watchers and he condemned their actions and tried to alert the authorities but to no avail. It seemed the young man had chosen his own fate and no magistrate could be moved.

"Sacrifice of the Watchers, Giles." Xander sounded impatient. "It's why you went up there."

"I didn't know it was called that then," he muttered without looking up. "And I still don't see how a group of rocks, however enchanted, can distinguish who is a Watcher."

He supposed the people who first laid down the magicks would be the wisest of their group, and perhaps seven of them had willingly given their lives to cement the spell. And when each soul faded and another was needed to replace it, the group would pick, who exactly? Another wise man? Again, he questioned how rocks where supposed to determine IQ. And then it hit him. The eternal diviner across all ages - blood. The stones could recognise family lineage. The young man had been a Watcher, but Watchers also run in families. He had been willing to die, but then perhaps he understood the repercussions and felt he had no choice, others in his place may have been reluctant and yet subsumed anyway. Like the dead girl last night, who had done her research on her great-great Uncle, but had misunderstood, thinking she could offer up Giles instead, not realising her own risk.

"The stones wanted her, not me. I was never in any danger." Looking back he wondered if all the barrage and buffeting had been designed to make him withdraw, whether in the end, the stones had grown tired of his presence and simply flung him out.

"But you put yourself in danger, Giles." Xander was back to folding his arms and looking down at him. "And her."

He had and he regretted it. He had gone to the Stones like some first year at the Academy, convinced he had the answers and could make a difference. That the girl had manipulated made no difference. He was not without experience, he should not have tackled such a ritual without backup, without knowing how it would end. He knew he hadn't read everything; he should have contacted Buffy and got the Council resources. They had, after all, put together a trailer bursting with books and manuscripts in an incredibly short amount of time. Giles looked at the books and the notes on the whiteboard. There was evidence of several pens and different hands, almost as if the work had involved more people, or taken place over a longer period of time. It gave him a nasty feeling.

"Just how long have you two been researching all this?"

Xander looked impassively back at him so he turned to Willow.

"About three weeks," she admitted.

"Three… _weeks_? You've known the protection spell, on the town, _where I live,_ has been at risk of collapse for the last three weeks, and you didn't think to tell me? Why on Earth not?"

Willow pulled a chair next to his and took his hand.

"Because of exactly what happened last night. You found out, you wanted to go do something about it. Buffy thought…" She stopped and corrected herself, "We all thought, we should keep you safe."

"Had I had more information," Giles said testily. "I wouldn't have gone up there at all."

"Bullshit!" Xander exclaimed. "You knew exactly what you were doing."

"Xander! Not now."

"He went up there to die, Willow. Only he's gotten someone else killed instead. He's got to take responsibility for that."

"I'm sure he knows that. Don't you?" She was pleading, sympathetic and soothing but Giles didn't want to be on the receiving end of that sort of relationship.

"I don't need you to defend me," he declared, pulling his hand free. "And that is not what happened!"

"Giles. Giles." She put a hand firmly on his shoulder as she spoke. "You went to the stones to perform the sacrifice of the Watcher. Only, a girl got in the way. I'm sure you didn't mean it to happen, but you have to acknowledge what you've done".

He brushed her off rudely and stood up.

"It wasn't like that. You're not listening to me, either of you. Why don't you believe me?"

"Like in the hospital when we told you your father had been turned and had killed everyone at your birthday party? Like how you didn't believe us then?"

Xander's words hit him incredibly hard. He remembered how he felt waking up in the hospital and seeing Buffy. In his pain and drugged dream-state he'd reasoned he'd been in a car crash, and how stupid he'd been to smash a car on his birthday. And she'd been so upset and he'd felt he had to reassure her. And everything was going to be OK and then he'd remembered his mother would be worried too and had asked Buffy to let the family know he was a bit beat up, but otherwise OK. And then she'd explained...

"That was different. It was…unthinkable." He stumbled the words out. "I was in the hospital. I was badly hurt. I… I didn't remember what had happened."

And he remembered the anger he'd felt at her for lying to him about his dad, about all the deaths. _Because it couldn't be true._ And then Xander had come in to see what the shouting was and Giles had just launched all his rage at him instead of Buffy. Nursing staff had practically jumped on him to stop him getting up and ripping out his IV and monitors. And he remembered Buffy was crying

"But you accept that's the truth now, don't you?" Xander insisted.

"Yes," Giles admitted quietly. He'd been wrong.

"And while we're on the subject of honesty, have you ever admitted what you were really doing in Norfolk?" Xander pressed. "What you put us through that night?"

Willow interceded sharply.

"Xander, that's enough. Stop pushing him. It's OK, Giles. Like I said, we'll get you a better doctor."

Giles was feeling a little dazed by the emotional onslaught but the mention of Carol at least reminded him he had routines and techniques to cope with stressful situations. His hand sought the reassurance of his house keys.

"I don't need a better doctor. I like my doctor. She thinks I've made a lot of progress, and I have! You're both wrong. Very, very wrong."

Xander sat on the edge of the table and Giles could see the concern in his one good eye.

"This isn't working out, man," his young friend said gently. "Why can't you see that? Getting you this job, we thought you'd be safe. But you keep looking for ways to die."

They weren't listening to his arguments that he'd been duped into performing the ritual, but Xander's phrase about how he'd come by his job was a sobering, new twist.

"I submitted an employment application form," Giles said carefully.

"Course you did." Xander actually smiled. "To the safest town in the world for someone who is vampire shy. Wasn't that just a piece of luck."

Giles dropped his head. The girl at the Stones had taunted him that his job had been an act of charity and now he had confirmation that everything he'd built up for himself the past year was based on a lie. He became aware his young friends were talking about him softly, as if he wasn't in the room.

"We're going to have to call Buffy and think of something else," Xander said. "Maybe another hospital."

"Poor Giles. It's going to be OK though."

That was it. He'd heard enough.

"I am not submitting to another hospital and _you_ don't have the authority to make me. You got me the job…" he chuntered. "Buffy got me the job. Unbelievable! I can't have anything for myself, can I?" he shouted, causing them both to flinch. "Without you lot interfering, controlling?" There wasn't a lot of room to pace in the trailer but he made a good stab at small circles. "Led by the nose is about right, isn't it? But I will not be a victim to you!" He waved a shaking finger at them. "I understand it's because you care, but you are not helping. I am not an object of pity. I will not be 'Poor Giles' to you or anyone."

He needed fresh air and made to the door. Xander rose defensively and looked like he might try to stop him but Giles was so angry he backed off.

"If I didn't come by my job honestly, then I don't want it. I quit! I resign! I will lead my own life and make my own mistakes without your interference." He wrenched open the trailer door. "From now on, you lot stay the hell out of my life and that goes double for Buffy."

And with that he slammed the door closed behind him.


	31. Illumination

**Illumination**

The route was surprisingly more complicated than Buffy expected and she more than once began to doubt the accuracy of her hastily copied directions, taken from a notebook her eyes had once strayed upon at Giles' house. For one thing, they seemed to take her down the same road three times, not to mention the odometer in her car seemed to be going backwards, but eventually, she reached a dirt track driveway that had previously eluded her and saw that straight ahead lay an undeniably pretty white and red lighthouse. She parked, and three stout pulls on the iron bell rope finally produced distinctly crabby replies of ' _alright, alright, I'm coming'_ , and she waited as a heavy lock was drawn and the door opened to reveal Ethan Rayne, sporting a towelling blue dressing gown and two days of stubble growth. Given it was three o'clock in the afternoon, Buffy was mildly appalled, but not so appalled it seemed, as he was to see her.

"Buffy Summers! Good God. However did you find this place?"

"It's a sixty foot lighthouse, Ethan. They were designed to be conspicuous."

He narrowed his eyes. "That's not what I meant."

"Giles gave me the instructions of how to pass through the wards." It wasn't strictly true but all lies to Ethan took on a whitish hue by default.

"Did he now?" He pulled the cord on his dressing gown a little tighter. "I shall have to have some strong words with him about that."

"Yeah, well, I need to speak to him first. Can I come in?" Head down, she took a step to enter, but Ethan, whether wary of inviting anyone in his home or her in particular, stood his ground.

"Sorry, no. He's gone out for a walk. Near the cliffs I think he said." There was a smile. "If you hurry you might be able to catch him. So to speak."

The joke was in typically poor taste but she recognised it as a lie.

"Can I come in and wait?"

"It's not terribly convenient."

Buffy waited and Ethan waited and she had a horrible feeling they were both quite capable of facing off all night. She could have used force to get past him, but then he could have used magick to prevent her and besides, as she was painfully aware, she really didn't have any authority as the Slayer in this matter. There was no demon threat; no chaos magick to thwart, their issue was purely 'a domestic'. Much as she quite liked the idea of punching him, it really would be common assault and he'd probably be justified in calling the police. Ethan seemed to have reached the same conclusion himself because he gave her one of his smug smiles, the kind that almost re-opened the case for inflicting violence all over again, but then surprisingly, as victory in the standoff was his, he stepped aside and shouted over one shoulder.

"Get some clothes on, love. We have company."

Buffy felt ashen as she realised she now really didn't want to find that Giles and Ethan…that Giles and Ethan…but Ethan and already turned inside and she had no choice but to follow, and close his front door for him and enter his living area. Finding Giles was the most important thing she reminded herself, the embarrassments could wait, but it still hurt to think he'd ended his physical relationship with her and that Ethan, with his ridiculously phallic home, had that closeness now. She had long since been reconciled to the past, it was the present she found personally unpalatable.

A thirty-something stranger rose from the couch. Thinning dark hair and tolerably dressed in sweats, he grunted at her arrival with ill-disguised resentment.

"Michael this is Buffy. Buffy, this is Michael," Ethan breezily introduced.

"Giles isn't here," she said, in a mixture of relief and disappointment.

"No he isn't," Ethan admitted, "Though those were the days. Have you tried, oh I don't know…" His voice took on a sarcastic tone. "The house where Giles _actually_ lives?"

"Yes and he's not there either," she replied in her own voice of tungsten. She had just bagged the last rental car in the shop and driven full gas from there, still reeling from the humiliation of not being allowed past the doorstep at Giles' house: her route having being blocked by a tall Scottish woman who seemed to know all about Buffy and yet regarded her as something sinister the cat had dragged in. ' _Dr Giles is no longer at this address_ '.

"Craig seems to have moved his girlfriend in," Buffy added bitterly. "Fee someone? Fiona something?"

"Ah, The Formidable Fiona," Ethan confirmed. "I haven't actually met her. For some reason Rupert didn't think we'd get on terribly well. I thought she only came up for weekends?"

"Not now that Giles has quit his job and moved out," Buffy said pointedly.

Ethan stood very still at that news and Buffy guessed he hated betraying his surprise and concerns about Giles to her, just as much as she did to him. He made a clucking noise as if reaching a decision and turned to his houseguest.

"Can you give us a few minutes, Mikey? Family matters."

Mikey however, was not charitably disposed to the request and slumped defiantly on the couch with his back to them. Ethan was vexed but waved Buffy upwards towards the winding staircase with a degree of good grace.

She climbed to the very top of the building and waited for him in what had once been the light housing. He'd renovated it with an expensively polished floor and some comfortable chairs and Buffy found herself admiring the serenity of the 360 views it afforded across the land and sea. It was an overcast day, nothing but greys in the sky and out to the horizon, but still endlessly fascinating.

Ethan appeared some few minutes later, sockless but otherwise mercifully dressed in jeans and a blue shirt and carrying a tray with two cups of tea, cream, and sugar. She bit her tongue at asking for cookies, he was, after all, making an effort at hospitality having had his other plans for the afternoon interrupted, and they did have important matters to discuss. She filled him in on the events of the Singing Stones – Giles' bid to preserve the protection wards on his academic town, the death of the woman who thought she was sacrificing Giles – and the aftermath of Willow and Xander's misunderstanding – the assumption that Giles had been trying to end his own life and the woman had been caught in the crossfire. If Ethan had already heard the story, he did a fine job of pretending otherwise.

"And then Xander lost his temper and pretty much told him we'd set him up in his job to keep him safe and Giles took it way badly. He stormed out on them and quit his job on the spot."

"I see. Yes, I can certainly see his point of view."

"I know. Me too in a way," she conceded. "But he was really angry, and Giles, after all that has happened, really shouldn't be hulking out. He might do anything - something really stupid anyway - I assumed he must be here with you."

She hadn't really intended to equate 'something really stupid' with 'be here with you', but Ethan was quick to join the dots and be amused.

"Honestly, no, he hasn't been here. He hasn't called me either." The corner of his mouth turned playfully. "But then I have been a bit preoccupied."

She opted to ignore the innuendo. "So where is he, Ethan?"

"I have no idea."

"I know you keep a tracking spell on Giles," she challenged.

"Sadly he worked out how to block it. Can't Ms Rosenberg help with that sort of thing? She has a lot more power than I have."

"He's blocking her too," Buffy admitted. Ethan looked momentarily taken aback.

"How impressive, and I suppose, rather determined, of him."

"He's not returning my calls," she continued. "And Ryan says he can't even track his cell phone."

Ethan put down his cup of tea swiftly, scraping it against the saucer and clattering the spoon.

"Ryan being the young man with a large number of soldiers and all manner of secret detention centres at his disposal? Are we perhaps, overlooking the obvious? Forgive my cynicism. I speak from experience."

"He wouldn't do that." Actually she thought, Captain Ryan Appleby was quite capable of that, but he was also an honourable man as well as her friend and he seemed to like Giles too. "Not without telling me, he wouldn't," she added. Besides, when she'd talked to him last, Ryan had been almost dismissive of the incident of the Singing Stones, and he'd definitely seemed to think Giles was OK.

Ethan interrupted her thoughts.

"And is the good Captain currently out in force, scouring the hedgerows with fixed bayonets? Again, I speak from experience."

"I haven't exactly told him Giles is missing," she confessed.

Ethan's eyebrows rose.

"And he has no means of determining this for himself?"

"He might," she conceded, "But if he has then he doesn't seem to be worried about the situation."

"Well he wouldn't be," Ethan suggested darkly. "Not if he's thrown Rupert in some dark pit of atrocity. I suggest you go ask Major Tom where Giles is."

Shaking her head, Buffy rose and stepped across to look out to the sea and clear her thoughts. Ethan's theory nagged at her but she knew it wasn't just the way he presented it that bothered her. He sounded in earnest, but if he was really serious about it, she doubted he would be calmly sitting with her playing at tea parties and besides, Ryan had a working relationship with her and was not in the business of black-ops disappearing people she cared about. He was a decent guy and way too smart to think he could get away with it.

"Giles may be angry," she reasoned quietly, "But there's no way he goes off radar without bringing a shit storm of trouble on himself with the army and he's knows that, he's not stupid." And yet, she thought, Ryan clearly wasn't assembling his shit storm troopers, so what was she missing?

She looked out to the horizon and tried to imagine viewing it on a harsher day, when the sea roared up to crash against the rocks below and the sky was black with cruelty. For now though, in all directions, the sea was grey and bleak yet seemed to be hardly moving, and the clouds above had barely shifted position with the lack of wind. There was calmness present without expectation that any storm could possibly flare up again.

"Dr Daniels!" Buffy spoke the name the split second it entered her head. "He must still be keeping the appointments with his doctor! That would keep Ryan happy too, of course." She looked hopefully back to Ethan. "Dr Carole Daniels. Can you track her movements? Maybe she can lead us to Giles."

He seemed not to share the excitement of the breakthrough.

"That's a tad unethical, isn't it? What about the confidentiality of her other patients?"

She found his hypocrisy staggering.

"Ethan Rayne. Moral Compass," Buffy intoned solemnly.

He bristled. "Does it occur to you that maybe he just wants some time to himself?"

"He can have that after I find him. For now, I really have to talk to him and explain. He was really angry when he found out we'd set him up with a safe job, Ethan, and he's blaming me for everything."

"Maybe that's valid," he offered in a surprisingly waspish attack. "After all, you are just sticking your oar into his life again. You just want your life to be a certain way, with your Watcher back, meekly at your side, doing your research, doing your bidding, doing your shopping or whatever it is you want from him."

"And you just want your little playmate back, Rayne," she shot back angrily. "So you can bring chaos to the world."

Ethan stood up to argue the point at about the same time the front door slammed below them. Distracted, he moved to the curved window that faced inland and Buffy scooted across to his shoulder to peer out too. Below them, they saw Michael raise a middle finger, then turn and trudge off down the dirt track and presumably the town or village that lay yonder. Ethan ground his teeth a little but said nothing and Buffy realised the old arguments they had flung at each other were no longer valid. They both had more complicated lives than before, both had changed, grown up in some ways and moved on in others.

"Sorry," she offered politely as Ethan turned his back to rest against the window and folded his arms.

"Actually that first trip into chaos magick was all Ripper's idea." He grunted and added quickly, "Not that you care." But she made no reply and waited for him to resume. "I love Rupert. He's always held an infinite fascination for me but, dear god, he can be infuriating. I bet he never told you that Eyghon the Sleepwalker was his discovery." Buffy clearly registered her disbelief and Ethan saw it for what it was and tilted his head. "Oh I'm not suggesting I was a meek little victim bullied by mean old Ripper, just that he bears more of the responsibility for that cock up than he sometimes likes to admit. He was the one that found the 'perfect party demon' and he was the one who talked me into persuading the others. Ripper at that time, well I'd have done anything he wanted. I'd have followed him through the gates of hell, and believe me that isn't just hyperbole."

He dropped his eyes to the carpet and spoke more gently. "It was a godawful night. And the nightmares afterwards, well you could never quite be sure if it really was old Eyghon paying a visit. Sleep rather being his thing, you see. Rupert especially took it very badly. At night I would hold him and promise to keep him safe and I thought that was what my life was going to be like forever."

He suddenly snapped his fingers so loudly that Buffy actually jumped a little.

"And then, just like that, it was over," he continued. "Out of nowhere, he started blaming me for everything, and I mean everything, and he was suddenly denying his own guilt, and the complicity, the intimacy. He dropped me like a hot brick and re-joined the Council of Tweed, an institution he thoroughly despised, but nevertheless, went back to like a good little lapdog."

Buffy thought she understood. "He moved on," she suggested. "After Eyghon. It was the right thing to do."

"You only think that because it benefited you. What I'm saying is that he dealt with his guilt over Eyghon by reinventing himself as some perfect milk sop Watcher, to your advantage I'm sure, but mostly, he dealt with the guilt by blaming it all on me and cutting his ties with the past. The Ancients believed they could cast off their sins physically to a sacrificial goat and get on with their lives. It's not a very pleasant thing to be on the receiving end of, but it's what he does and how he copes. So maybe it's time you let him go."

"You never gave up on him though," she challenged.

"Yes I did! I hardly spent 20 years pining for the man. Going to Sunnydale was by chance, and when a glorious opportunity presented itself on a plate, I could hardly refuse."

"But you're in his life now."

"Only when he lets me."

He led them down the stairs and towards the front door. Buffy wondered if he were embarrassed at revealing so much of himself that he was throwing her out, or maybe they simply had nothing further to say to each other.

"I still have to find him," she said firmly, as he held the heavy door open for her.

"Why? He is getting therapy with a doctor he seems to trust, and it sounds like he has found some self-respect, judging by his indignation of being found a prestigious job in a town protected from the supernatural. The Rupert of eighteen months ago never questioned how convenient it was that such a college would give him such a job."

Valid points perhaps, thought Buffy but they changed nothing for her. "If he is safe from harm and getting help," Ethan pleaded. "If the military are happy he isn't going to host another wild demon party, then surely you can stand down from your concerns too? Let him go, Buffy."

"No, I can't." She looked him squarely in the eyes. "And you know why."

She held his gaze until he understood and he finally mumbled, "Infinite fascination."

She nodded, aware she had shared just as much of her own feelings as he had his and began to walk to her car.

"He's gone home," Ethan shouted after her. Buffy opened her mouth to object she'd just come from there but he waved her away. "I don't mean there. I mean for the past two days he's been at his parents' house. You'll find him there."

Buffy blitzed the car locks rapidly and jumped in. That house was really the last place she'd wanted to find him at.


	32. Demolition

**Demolition**

The sledgehammer savagely smashed into the wall and destruction flew in its wake. Giles hadn’t been paying much attention to the passage of time - other than a vague consciousness that night had clearly fallen outside and that The Stranglers CD had played repeatedly several times - no, he’d been having far too much fun. Having no near neighbours, he had revelled in maximum volume as he’d swung his sledgehammer against the old pantry wall in what had once been his mother’s kitchen.  Plaster and whole bricks had satisfyingly shattered under each blow until he’d had a substantial if untidy pile of rubble at his feet. As he stopped to wipe sweat and brick dust from his eyebrows and survey his destruction with pleasure, he became aware of another hammering noise, a different, rather insistent knocking that he finally recognised as coming from the front door. Cutting the music and casually slinging his sledgehammer over one shoulder, Giles walked along the bare floorboards of the main hallway, and released the door bolts. His visitor didn’t come as a complete surprise.

“Buffy,” he greeted neutrally.

“Giles! What the…?” As he opened the door further she took in his unshaven face and lack of glasses with concern and demanded, “Giles, _what’_ s going on?”

His boots _were_ brick dust grey, his jeans _were_ extremely filthy from demolition and his shirt, well, even Giles thought his shirt was probably not worth the washing, but her tone struck him as unnecessarily accusatory and patronising. He abruptly turned heel to stalk back to the kitchen, leaving her to manage the door and follow him but she was nimbler and grabbed his arm to stop him.

“What gives?” she asked again.

“Nothing _gives_.”

Her eyes drifted through the open door towards what she’d known as the front sitting room. Her memories had been of a warm, inviting room of russet and sage, with worn yet comforting armchairs, and well-loved bric-a-brac on shelves, but now all the furniture and carpets had gone and even the wallpaper had been stripped away. A bare light bulb from a brown flex hung limply above a rumpled sleeping bag and an untidy holdall of clothes and books.

Her attention diverted, Giles eased himself free of her and stated, “I’m simply thinking of selling the place.”

Buffy followed him warily over the exposed floorboards of the hallway to the back of the house. There she found the kitchen looked like a small bomb had been detonated at its centre, causing cupboards to rip from the walls and work surfaces smashed to form ankle turning piles of firewood on the floor. The sink unit had been denuded to just its square white bowl and taps, the over-painted pantry room door was off its hinges and propped against a window and a large hole knocked through one wall.  Only one work surface remained, a laminate counter supporting a ghetto blaster and a small stack of CDs.

“As what?” she questioned. “A ruin?”

He huffed slightly before answering. “I’m renovating. A little destruction is a necessary first step.”

“So why do I feel like I’m standing in a Buster Keaton movie?” she teased.

“Because you don’t trust me to know what I’m doing.”

His answer had been given neutrally but Buffy detected the edge and let it pass. She leaned back against the counter, her hands in her coat pockets.

“I have been trying to call you for three days. I have a right to be worried when it’s been _three days_.”

Giles tugged to his back pocket and inspected his phone - nothing lit up. Murmuring, _“oh sorry”,_ he brushed past her and unplugged the music system causing, she thought, the long florescent strip light overhead to flicker. Meeting resistance with the wall socket, Giles began to hammer the plug of a phone charger home with the heel of his palm, talking as he did so.

“The pantry in here has always been prone to damp and somewhat impractical. I’m thinking of extending this area to create a better utility room. Then the two bathrooms will need updating and all the wiring needs bringing up to code.” His hammering efforts were rewarded with a small blue spark, which Giles seemed to take as a sign of success. He left the phone to charge and stepped back, adding wryly, “Hopefully before the electrics spontaneously combust and burn the place down.”

Buffy shifted uncomfortably in acknowledgment that it might be a race against time.

“Sounds like a lot of work,” she said.

He shrugged. “I will get contractors in for some of it.”

“Maybe Xander could help?”

Giles gave her a withering look and said, “And maybe not.” Picking up the sledgehammer, he smashed two bricks out of the wall at waist height.

“This doesn’t feel healthy,” Buffy remonstrated.

“Nonsense.” He swung again, recklessly scattering plaster and rubble. “I’ve had the place checked for asbestos. We’re in no danger.”

“Giles! Stop this. We need to talk. Xander said you were threatening to quit your teaching job.”

“That nice _safe_ job, in that nice _safe_ town?” Two matching swings sent six more bricks flying to the rubble heap. “The one that you so conveniently arranged for me?”

She met his flash of petulance with calm resistance.

“I’m not apologising for that,” she said. “I did what was necessary.”

“Yes, well maybe, but it would have been nice to have been consulted rather than manipulated.” He crouched down with his back to her and busied himself with fallen bricks, sizing and ordering in small piles. “You should have told me, rather than me thinking it was my good fortune.” He rose and made to start destroying stuff again. “And God forbid, my own merits, that had gotten the job.” He took another precision swing at around knee high.

“You weren’t thinking anything at that time,” she reminded him. “Which was kinda why I did what I did.”

But he wasn’t listening, in fact it felt that he was deliberating ignoring her, so Buffy sprang forward to grab the heavy weighted end of his sledgehammer and pull it out of his hands. Unfortunately, her timing sucked because with a nasty jarring action, the wooden handle hit Giles on the side of his head. He yelped and shielded his eye, backing away defensively. In her defence, she wasn’t used to having to worry about collateral damage when she tackled demons in that manner.

“Oh God, I’m so sorry!” She reached out in concern, but he shrunk away.

“Don’t... Don’t touch me,” he barked and it was her turn to flinch.

“It was an accident, Giles. I’m sorry.”

“I know. It’s OK.” He took some breaths and composed himself. “It’s not bleeding. It’s OK. Just don’t try to help me anymore. I can manage.”

She stood obediently as he raided his freezer, smashing a plastic tray of ice into a grubby looking tea towel and holding it to his eye. When they’d trained together, she’d hurt him plenty of times in the past, but this felt very different to Buffy.

“Are you sure you’re OK?”

As Giles blinked and tested his neck muscles, she caught glimpses of the cartoon-like swelling, only it wasn’t a cartoon and it was already taking on a hot and nasty colour.

“Serves me right for not using safety goggles,” he said finally.

“It’s going to be quite a shiner. Sorry.”

He grunted away her apologies.

“I have a meeting with the College tomorrow too. Heavens knows what they are going to think.”

Cautiously, she asked, “Are you actually living here now? _Have_ you quit your job?”

“Not yet,” he admitted, and clinked the ice around for better contact. “But only because I haven’t talked with Sir Stuart yet. I’m formally resigning at tomorrow’s probation meeting. Seems appropriate.”

“Ok.” A million questions on the theme of “And then what?” burned in her, but she knew better than ask any of them. Instead, she let an awkward silence develop between them as Giles clearly avoided both eye contact and reassurance. Eventually, he busied himself by refilling the ice tray from the tap and putting it back in the freezer, before dropping down to the rubble heap once more to resume sorting.

Buffy felt incredibly tired and, surveying the limited options for sitting, she decided to risk proximity to the death-trap electrics and hopped up onto the one remaining counter to swing her feet. Surprisingly, Giles turned swiftly, startled, he looked up at her coldly.

“Don’t sit there. Don’t do that, Buffy. In fact, I’d like you to leave this house please.”

She blinked back in genuine surprise.

“Excuse me? It’s like ten o’clock at night out there and I have no place else to go.”

“There’s an hotel about five miles back towards the next town.”

“Giles!” She jumped down to her feet and he rose squarely to face her.

“You may not have noticed but I have no furniture or carpets. Everything has been cleared out and you should do the same.”

She eyed him in disbelief. “You’re seriously kicking me out? Into the night?”

“That used to be the nature of our relationship,” he said primly. “It used to work just fine.”

“To _patrol_!”

“Feel free to pick off any vampires as you go,” he replied blithely.

“No. We need to talk about what happened last week.”

“Really? _Need_ we?” he stung back and shifted the makeshift icepack on his temple. “You weren’t there and that’s all there is to it.”

“I’m not going to apologise for being in New Zealand when you decided to buddy up with an evil librarian and sign on for the geology field trip of the damned.” Her humour was a provocation but nothing about Giles’ attitude betrayed any amusement.

“I don’t blame you for having work commitments elsewhere,” he said evenly. “My actions were entirely my own responsibility.”

Her eyes narrowed shrewdly.

“Then what are you blaming me for? Is it still the job thing? For giving you a fresh start someplace you’d be relatively safe? For looking out for you?”  

“I’m not ungrateful for everything you have done, Buffy, but this latest incident has shown that I can’t depend on you.” She opened her mouth to object but he forestalled her. “I don’t mean it that way.” His voice was calm. “I mean _I_ can’t keep depending on _you_. I have to start coping better on my own, and to do that, I think it’s necessarily we stop seeing each other.”

“One row with Xander and you’re punishing me?”

“No-one is punishing anyone, I just want my life back. What happened last week was frightening, I admit, but _I_ came through it. _I_ survived.” His smile at the recollection was at least genuine. “And importantly, I survived without _you_. I can do this, I can stand on my own two feet.”

“That’s great news, this is what we’ve all wanted all along.”

He shook his head in disbelief and muttered, “What _we_ wanted all along… It’s time, Buffy. You need to let me make my own mistakes from now on.”

“Sure.”

“No, you don’t understand. I want you out of my life _completely_.”

“But we have something…”

“We had sex,” he said rather coldly. “We had physical mutual gratification at times when the world was a frightening place for me - again, not ungrateful - but that’s been over for some months now, and it’s time to move on.”

Buffy folded her arms.

“I’m not quitting on you, Giles. You can’t just say it’s over. We had more than just sex. What about our friendship? What about me?”

“With respect Buffy, this is about my wishes, what I need for my recovery and your presence in my life is an obstacle to that recovery.”

She tilted her head at what she felt was an incredible irony.

“I’m standing in your way?” she demanded sarcastically.

Her eyes bore into him and he took a long time to answer.

“Yes. If you like.”

“So this is like Sunnydale? When I came back from the dead.” She emphasised her next words very deliberately. “When you…left… me.”

His raised his chin glibly. 

“When I stepped out of your life to help you, yes. Which is all I’m asking you to do now.”

“Oh Giles, you’re some piece of work, aren’t you?” she responded slowly, trying to keep her anger in check. “I mean this is rich coming from the guy who bailed on me because he said it hurt him too much to _watch_ me suffer. Poor you!” Her restraint deserted her. “What about my suffering, Mister so-called Watcher? Your sticking around was what I needed from you the most, and you ABANDONED me!”

If she’d expected guilt or embarrassment she didn’t get it. Instead he looked incredibly supercilious.

“Well if this is all about proving how _very much_ a better person you are than me, then _bravo_.”

Buffy choked back her rage. She felt she had never been as close to beating a man to death than in that moment.

“You're a cold, selfish bastard,” she snapped. “I should have known that at the time.”

“Whereas you are the Sainted Buffy, Bless- _ed_ be her name, looking after the poor unfortunates.” He came towards her, provocatively pointed a finger and continued, “Because actually, no, you’re the Chosen One.” And then he stunned her by added sarcastically, “Except nobody ever does choose you, do they? Not for long.”

She must have been conveying a pretty murderous look by then because he did have the decency to back off a couple of steps before resuming callously, “It’s pretty clear that this situation isn’t all about me, Buffy. This is about you! How you’ve had the safety of a completely co-dependent relationship. I couldn't leave you like the others did, and even when I tried then you wouldn't let me. You let Angel, Riley, hell even Spike go, but old Giles, no, he had to be protected from himself, so you got to keep a tight hold on him. And you got to feel good about yourself doing it. I think that’s pretty selfish, don’t you?”

“You’ve no right to speak to me like that,” she thundered. “That’s not why I’ve fought so hard for you. We’re the same, you and I. Don’t you get it? I can’t let you go because you’re…you’re my… GILES!”

“I don’t want to be that anymore for you.” His voice became icy calm and almost reasonable again. “I don’t want to live in the past with you. You need to get on with your own life and stop trying to dictate mine. Move on, Buffy. We’re done here.”

The calculatingly cold way he dismissed her, rocked at her core. Buffy’s throat tightened in pain and disbelief.

He smiled and added pleasantly, “Get out of my house now, please.”

“That’s really what you want?” she growled. “You got this all by your brave self?” She waved a hand at his house, his recovery, his very existence. “Good for you, but also, screw you, because you will never speak to me like this again. In fact, from now on, you can get the hell out of _my_ life!”

Within thirty seconds she’d slammed the front door behind her and savagely swept her car out on to the open road, flipping on her headlights at the last moment. Gripping the steering wheel intensely, Buffy made up her mind: she was going to hotel up the road he’d mentioned for the night, but after that…Rupert Giles, well, as far as she was concerned, Rupert Giles could go to Hell.

 

 


End file.
